LIBRARY 

iversity  cl  Ca 

IRVINE 


BY 

MRS.  J.  H.  WALWORTH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  BAR  SINISTER,"    "WITHOUT  BLEMISH, 

"OLD  FULKERSON'S  CLERK,"  "THE  NEW  MAN 

AT  ROSSMERE,"  "  SCRUPLES,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MERSHON   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1889, 

BY 
O.  M.  DUNHAM. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


I.  THE  RECORD  OF  A  DAY,  i 

II.  A  GIRL'S  FREAK,                ...  I7 

III.  MORE  CRUELTY,  28 

IV.  Miss  RAY  IN  A  PREDICAMENT,  43 
V.  A  LOYAL  FRIEND,  -----  57 

VI.  A  VISIT  TO  BRIARWOOD,     -  75 

VII.  CONTAINS  AN  EXPLANATION,         -       -'  90 

VIII.  BRIARWOOD  UNDER  THE  SUNSHINE,  -  101 

IX.  A  PROVOST  MARSHAL'S  REIGN,      -  115 

X.  THE  PROVOST'S  FRIEND,     -  128 

XI.  HENRY  MAKES  AN  ENEMY,     -               -  142 

XII.  MRS.  WHITE  TURNS  DIPLOMAT,  154 

XIII.  THE  PROVOST'S  MAIL,     -       -       -       -  168 

XIV.  ORDEALS, 182 

XV.  RUMOR  ON  WINGS,  -----  195 

XVI.  NELLIE  MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND,  210 

XVII.  BETSY,             - 224 

XVIII.  WHAT  DID  COME  OF  IT,      -  237 

XIX.  SPECTER  WINGS, 253 

XX.  NELLIE  FINDS  AN  ASYLUM,        -       -  264 


BALDY'S  POINT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   RECORD   OF  A   DAY. 

ONLY  a  rumor!  a  faint,  awe-struck  whisper, 
as  illusive  as  the  memory  of  a  troubled 
dream,  as  intangible  as  the  breeze  that  rustled 
in  the  restless  leaves  of  the  tall  cottonwood 
trees  that  grew  where  they  listed  round  about 
town ;  but  it  was  potent  to  bring  all  the 
women  and  children  of  Baldy's  Point  together 
into  anxious  and  excited  conclave. 

No  one  could  tell  who  first  set  the  horrible 
whisper  afloat.  Doubtless  some  bird  of  ill 
omen ;  for  there  were  no  mail  packets  in  those 
days,  breasting  the  fierce  current  of  the  swollen 
river  as  it  rushed  seaward  with  its  annual  spring 
tribute  of  ugly  black  drift-logs;  there  were  no 
mounted  couriers  flashing  into  sight,  with  glit- 
ter  of  saber  and  jingle  of  spur,  to  drop  the  seed 
of  weal  or  woe  with  hurried  and  indifferent 
hand ;  no  newspapers,  to  keep  tally  with  fate. 


2  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Nothing  to  link  Baldy's  Point  with  the  outer 
world  but  a  huge,  sullen-looking  gunboat 
doing  sentinel  duty  out  there  amid  the  racing 
waters.  It,  on  the  one  side;  on  the  other  a 
townful  of  women  living  through  empty, 
objectless  days  waiting  for  that  which  never 
came. 

Into  this  stagnation  somebody  dropped  three 
thrilling  words:  "Lee  has  surrendered!" 

The  lips  that  repeated  the  fateful  words 
trembled  with  the  burden  of  them,  and  the  ears 
that  received  them  recoiled  with  pain. 
Women  derive  a  mysterious  sort  of  satisfaction 
from  flat  contradiction,  quite  as  if  the  enuncia 
tion  of  a  negative  proved  a  negative. 

It  was  simply  not  so.  It  could  not  be  true, 
you  know.  They  did  not  care  in  the  least  who 
said  so ;  it  was  not  so.  They  had  prepared 
their  minds  for  every  possible  contingency 
but  that  identical  one.  They  hated  the 
starter  of  this  rumor  with  rabid  but,  in  view  of 
the  difficulty  of  identifying  him,  necessarily  im 
personal  animosity.  Had  they  not  given  up 
their  husbands  and  fathers  and  sons  and  lovers 
to  ward  off  this  very  thing?  (women  argue 
from  the  heart.)  Such  sacrifices  as  they  had 
cheerfully  made  could  not  possibly  count  for 
naught. 

Having   made   sure,    individually,    by   mere 


BALDY'S  POINT.  3 

force  of  reiteration,  that  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  at  all  at  the  bottom  of  this  absurd 
rumor,  they  rallied  in  force  to  discuss  the  prob 
able  effects  of  it  upon  the  fortunes  of  Baldy's 
Point.  They  had  long  since  worn  that  much- 
put-upon  war  aphorism,  "Woe  to  the  con 
quered,"  to  a  verbal  skeleton,  but  it  was  hauled 
into  service  once  more  and  its  bones  picked 
with  gruesome  deliberation  in  order  to  decide, 
if  possible,  what  sort  of  woe  might  be  in  store 
for  them  collectively. 

The  bird  of  ill  omen  that  sowed  the  seed  of 
consternation  in  Baldy's  Point  that  soft  April 
day  sowed  it  so  industriously  that  before  ten 
o'clock  every  woman  who  could  possibly  get 
away  from  her  home  duties  was  on  the  front 
gallery  of  Sellers's  store. 

Sellers's  store  had  this  sudden  prominence 
thrust  upon  it  because  somebody  had  discov 
ered  a  travel-worn  freedman  sound  asleep  on 
one  of  the  dusty,  much-bewhittled  benches  that 
stood  on  its  gallery.  Of  course,  this  must  be 
the  bird  of  ill  omen. 

Truth  to  state,  as  he  lay  there  with  an  old 
gunny-sack  folded  under  his  head  for  a  pillow, 
with  a  dingy  bandanna  handkerchief  covering 
all  of  his  face  but  a  yawning  mouth,  into  whose 
cavernous  recesses  flies  of  adventurous  spirit 
made  frequent  incursions  with  impunity;  with 


BALDY'S 


his  huge,  upturned  feet  escaping  from  the 
inadequate  shelter  of  a  pair  of  army  boots,  the 
ornithologist  would  either  have  repudiated 
him  utterly  or  labeled  him  —  "Jail-bird." 

He  was  still  asleep  when  Mrs.  Sellers,  the 
first  to  arrive,  stepped  up  on  the  low  gallery  by 
aid  of  an  inverted  dry-goods  box  at  the  yard 
end  of  the  store.  The  Sellers  lived  just  back 
of  the  store,  in  the  prettiest  cottage  at  Baldy's 
Point.  "Sellers's,"  standing  as  it  did  just 
where  the  river  road,  and  the  "back-country" 
road  met  in  Baldy's  Point,  was  a  favorite  loung- 
ing-place  for  wayfarers.  Nobody  knew  where 
this  particular  wayfarer  hailed  from. 

Mrs.  Sellers  did  not  attempt  to  arouse  him. 
He  looked  formidable. 

She  preferred  waiting  for  reinforcements, 
regarding  him,  in  the  mean  while,  from  a  safe 
distance,  with  the  cautious  concern  one  be 
stows  upon  an  infernal  machine  presumably 
loaded  with  death. 

There  was  nothing  doing  in  Sellers's  store. 
Over  the  slumberer's  head  hung  a  pretentious 
and  misleading  sign  "J.  Sellers,  General  Mer 
chandise  and  Forwarding  Merchant,"  but  for 
nearly  two  years  now  the  general  merchan 
dise  had  been  reduced  to  a  lot  of  hardware 
under  one  of  the  counters,  which  nobody  could- 
find  use  for,  and,  being  rather  too  cumbersome 


BALDY'S  POINT.  5 

for  stealing,  it  had  offered  no  temptation  to 
transgressors.  The  dingy  green  wooden  shut 
ters,  the  bolting  of  which  Mr.  Sellers  himself 
used  to  see  to  every  night,  had  been  burned  for 
kindling-wood  ever  so  long  ago,  and  the  "for 
warding"  business  was  carried  on  exclusively  by 
the  rats  between  the  deserted  grocery  depart 
ment  and  their  own  abodes.  The  doors  stood 
open  day  and  night,  and  Mrs.  Sellers  could  see 
from  where  she  stood  a  starveling  cow  walk 
boldly  up  on  the  back  gallery  to  nose  about  the 
spot  where  the  bales  of  timothy  hay,  that  were 
bought  up  North  somewhere,  used  to  be  piled. 
Who  will  say  the  beasts  of  the  field  have  no 
memory !  She  was  quite  sure  there  had  been 
no  hay  in  that  back  gallery  since  that  cow's 
early  calfhood.  Perhaps  if  this  man's  horrible 
rumor  should  prove  true,  Mr.  Sellers  would 
soon  be  at  home  again,  and  the  store  be 
restocked,  and — she  pulled  imagination  up  with 
a  jerk :  was  she  really  predicting  pleasant  possi 
bilities  on  the  prospect  of  Lee's  surrender? 
She  blushed  hotly  at  the  enormity  of  her  own 
wickedness,  and  was  glad  there  were  no  more 
visible  signs  of  it  than  her  consciously  pink 
cheeks  when  Mrs.  Davidson  joined  her,  looking 
anxious  and  white  and  plucking  wildly  at  little, 
close-clinging  fragments  of  dough  which  orna 
mented  her  hands. 


6  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Mrs.  Davidson  was  portly,  and  she  panted  as 
she  mounted  to  the  gallery,  talking  as  she 
plucked  at  the  dough:  "I  didn't  even  wait  to 
take  my  pantry  apron  off.  You  know  since  Amy 
went  to  the  Yankees  I  have  every  bit  of  my  own 
light  bread  to  make.  We  would  all  die  of 
indigestion  if  I  didn't.  Who  says  Lee  has  sur 
rendered?  Perfectly  preposterous,  you  know!" 

"Nobody  can  find  out  unless  it's  this  darky, 
and  I  believe  he's  going  to  sleep  forever." 
The  new  word  "freedman"  was  too  clumsy  for 
Mrs.  Sellers's  untrained  tongue.  "Suppose  we 
wake  him  now,"  she  added,  tentatively.  There 
is  strength  in  numbers. 

Mrs.  Davidson  approving,  a  lively  and  pro 
longed  fusillade  of  "Uncle!  oh,  uncle!  o-h — 
uncle  !"  was  poured  into  both  of  the  slumberer's 
ears  simultaneously,  without  the  slightest  effect. 

Mrs.  Randolph  Baker  arrived  at  this  juncture, 
and,  with  her  usual  readiness  in  expedients, 
said,  "Shake  him." 

She  had  her  knitting  in  her  fair  hands,  and 
the  shining  needles  continued  clicking,  what 
ever  she  did.  If  gray  yarn  and  knitting-needles 
could  have  saved  the  lost  cause,  Mrs.  Randolph 
Baker  alone  would  have  been  worth  ten 
thousand  men.  The  town  statistician  essayed 
to  keep  account  of  the  socks  and  woolen  com 
forters  she  made,  but  gave  up  the  onerous  task 


BALDY'S  POINT.  ^ 

at  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  the  war.  Mrs. 
Baker  was  Judge  Baker's  wife.  She  used  to 
set  the  fashions  for  Baldy's  Point  before  the 
war,  and  people  had  gotten  into  the  habit  of 
looking  up  to  her  as  good  authority  on  other 
subjects  than  dress;  that  is  the  reason  why, 
when  she  said,  with  that  soft,  sweet  drawl  of 
hers,  "Shake  him,"  Mrs.  Sellers  and  Mrs.  David 
son  immediately  cast  about  for  a  clean  enough 
spot  on  the  shoulders  of  the  sleeping  monster 
to  seize  him  by.  It  was  an  undertaking  that 
called  for  discrimination.  Fortunately,  he 
saved  them  the  trouble  by  suddenly  opening 
his  eyes  to  the  peril  of  the  situation  and  sitting 
bolt  upright,  to  glare  at  the  rapidly  increasing 
group  of  women  about  him  with  an  expression 
of  bewilderment  bordering  on  terror. 

They  were  all  there,  in  fact,  by  the  time  the 
man  was  well  awake.  Mrs.  McCutchen,  who 
had  sent  three  splendid  boys  to  the  army  in  Vir 
ginia — who  had  more  cause  for  anxiety  than 
she?  She  brought  the  baby  along  with  her. 
And  little  Miss  Mildred  Miller,  whose  front  hair 
had  turned  gray,  since  restoratives  had  been  un 
procurable,  and  contrasted  violently  with  the 
brown  braid  on  the  back  of  the  head ;  and  the 
widow  Barton,  for  whom  the  war  had  already 
done  its  very  worst ;  and  sweet-voiced,  bright- 
eyed  Fanny  Ray.  Ah !  she  was  not  patriotic. 


8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

She  thought  it  all  monstrous.  The  other  wom 
en  viewed  her  with  severe  disfavor. 

Each  one  had  her  own  way  of  questioning 
the  man  on  the  bench.  He  was  a  stranger ;  the 
only  person  in  the  whole  town  whose  presence 
could  not  be  satisfactorily  accounted  for. 
Hence  he  must  be  the  one  who  had  brought 
the  news  of  Lee's  surrender.  But  though  they 
outnumbered  him  twenty-five  to  one;  though 
they  exhorted,  implored,  defied,  and  badgered 
him  with  all  the  ingenuity  known  to  the  sex, 
they  could  extract  nothing  from  him  but  the 
stolid  declaration  that  he  "hadn't  come  no 
furder'n  Watson's  place,  back  on  de  bayer,  en 
was  jus'  sleepin'  off  de  time  till  he  could  git  t' 
see  ef  Mrs.  Sellers  didn'  want  her  spring  gyar- 
din'  spade  up." 

After  making  this  statement  almost  as  many 
times  as  there  were  women  to  hear  it,  he  got 
up  stolidly  and  walked  away  from  them.  Who 
then  ? 

The  heavy  dews  of  the  morning  had  long 
since  dried  off  the  grass-grown  levee  that 
stretched  greenly  along  the  front  of  the  town. 
The  sun  had  mounted  above  the  tops  of  the 
trees  that  sheltered  the  Sellers  cottage  from 
sight  of  the  store,  and  still  the  women  lingered, 
restless,  nervous,  unsatisfied.  From  sheer  force 
of  habit  their  eyes  would  turn  toward  the  levee 


BALDY'S  POINT.  9 

and  their  gaze  be  strained  toward  the  distant 
bend  where  it  turned  abruptly  to  accommodate 
itself  to  the  curve  in  the  river.  Vicksburg  was 
in  that  direction,  and  if  anything  more  authen 
tic  than  this  unplaceable  rumor  was  to  come 
to  them  that  day,  it  must  come  from  that  point. 

It  grew  hot  on  the  gallery,  and  Mrs.  Sellers's 
hospitality  led  the  way  into  the  great,  dusty, 
empty  store.  It  was  uncheerful  in  there.  The 
post-office  box,  with  its  empty  pigeon-holes, 
adorned  with  the  written  names  of  so  many 
who  had  gone  away  never  to  come  back  again, 
stared  them  in  the  face  from  one  end  of  the 
counter,  and  stirred  up  melancholy  lines  of  re 
flection.  The  dusty  glass  show-cases,  with 
nothing  inside  to  show,  were  such  sharp  re 
minders  of  numberless  deprivations  ! — and  how 
much  bitterer  defeat  would  make  it  all ! 

It  was  Fanny  Ray,  whose  young  eyes  had 
been  trained  to  discern  objects  at  long  range 
since  her  lover  had  gone  to  the  war,  who 
brought  them  all  back  to  the  gallery  in  fresh 
excitement :  There  was  a  man  coming  down  the 
levee !  She  was  sure  it  was  a  soldier,  for  he  had 
a  soldier's  cap  on,  and  a  canteen  was  swinging 
across  his  shoulders. 

A  score  of  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her 
index  ringer.  They  mocked  at  her  for  pre 
suming  to  see  so  much  at  such  a  distance. 


10  BALDY'S  POINT. 

One  saw  only  a  mule,  browsing  on  the  short, 
sweet  grass  of  the  levee.  Another  saw  the 
black  stump  of  a  tree  that  had  deceived  her 
countless  times  before.  Others  saw — nothing 
at  all.  And  even  while  they  argued  it,  man 
and  canteen  and  soldier  cap  all  slowly  materi 
alized  before  the  eyes  of  the  most  skeptical, 
and  they  held  their  breath  while,  with  steps 
that  were  each  one  taken  with  pain  and  diffi 
culty,  he  came  toward  them  slowly — so  slowly 
that  the  fierce  impatience  that  was  consuming 
them  threatened  to  break  all  bounds. 

It  was  but  the  wreck  of  a  man  who  finally 
stood  before  them  doffing  the  wreck  of  a  gray 
hat  to  them  with  pathetic  courtesy.  The  feet 
that  had  brought  him  toward  them  at  such  a 
laggard's  pace  were  red  and  swollen  and  shoe 
less.  The  gray  trousers  that  flapped  in  frayed 
fringes  about  his  ankles  were  scarcely  more 
than  unseemly  rags.  A  beard  of  many  months 
growth  hid  the  extreme  hollowness  of  his 
cheeks.  His  eyes  glowed  with  the  fires  of  fever, 
and  their  expression  was  one  of  absolute  despair. 

Mrs.  Randolph  Baker,  peering  at  him  keenly 
over  the  rim  of  her  spectacles  as  he  limped  to 
ward  them,  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "I  do  believe 
that's  Henry  White." 

It  was  Fanny  Ray  who  turned  upon  her  in  hot 
indignation :  "Henry  White !  I  should  hate  him 


BALDY'S  POINT.  II 

if  he  came  home  looking  like  that.  He  could 
not  look  like  this  thing!"  Her  eyes  flashed, 
her  voice,  high-pitched  in  a  key  of  resentment, 
went  further  than  Mrs.  Baker's,  found  a  mark, 
and  inflicted  its  wound. 

The  burning  spot  on  the  man's  hollow  cheeks 
burned  more  redly.  For  a  second  his  eyes  were 
raised  in  wistful  survey  of  the  fresh  young  face 
and  glowing  eyes  of  the  girl  who  was  even  then 
mentally  contrasting  him  with  the  erect  young 
soldier  whose  full,  beardless  face,  simply 
adorned  with  a  sweeping  mustache  over  the 
upper  lip,  and  whose  laughing  eyes,  as  pre 
served  in  the  photograph  before  which  she  had 
even  that  morning  laid  her  votive  offering  of 
blue  and  white  violets,  belonged  to  the  Henry 
White  of  her  adoration — then  were  dropped 
upon  his  swollen,  shoeless  feet  in  an  attitude 
of  self-abasement. 

No  greeting!  no  waste  of  polite  convention 
alities.  They  did  not  even  give  him  time  to 
reach  the  dusty  bench  that  offered  the  extreme 
luxury  to  his  worn-out  frame,  before,  in  their 
cruel  haste,  they  hurled  the  question  at  him: 

"Has  Lee  surrendered?" 

'"Yes." 

He  said  it  doggedly,  sullenly,  indifferently  if 
you  will.  He  had  endured  all  he  could  endure. 
He  had  exhausted  all  his  emotions.  No,  not 


12  BALDY'S  POINT. 

all.  A  flush  of  indignation  mounted  high  into 
his  sunken  temples  as  the  tortured  incredulity 
of  the  women  found  heartless  expression : 
"He  was  a  deserter."  "He  was  a  traitor." 
"He  said  'yes'  because  he  wanted  it  to  be 
true."  "He  had  been  skulking  in  the  woods 
until  he  did  not  know  what  the  army  was  doing." 
"It  was  not  so."  "How  would  he  prove  it  to 
them?" 

Then  he  stood  up  on  the  gallery  in  their  midst 
and  pointed  with  a  long,  thin,  sunburned  finger 
toward  the  river.  His  arm  and  finger  trembled, 
either  from  weakness  or  emotion,  as  he  held  it 
outstretched.  He  did  not  look  at  them.  They 
were  women ;  excited,  unhappy,  nervous  wom 
en.  It  was  hard,  though,  not  to  rail  out  at 
them  for  their  cruel  words.  His  burning  eyes 
were  fastened  on  a  black  hulk  far  away,  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  river. 

"If  it  is  true,  the  gunboat  out  yonder  will 
fire  twenty  guns  at  sunset.  If  it  is  not  true, 
you  will  know  it  then,  and  you  will  know,  too, 
that  you  were  right  in  calling  me  'deserter'  and 
'traitor.'  Will  any  one  of  you  tell  me  where  I 
can  get  a  drink  of  water?" 

"Come  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Sellers,  in  a 
voice  scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper,  and  she 
passed  out  through  the  back  door  of  the  store, 
with  him  limping  slowly  after  her. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  1 3 

It  was  the  signal  for  a  general  home-going. 
There  was  nothing  to  keep  them  any  longer  on 
the  front  gallery  of  Sellers's  store.  They  parted 
silently.  Not  even  yet  would  they  admit  it  in 
words.  How  long  it  would  be  before  sunset ! 
How  should  they  fill  up  the  awful  hours 
between?  How  readjust  their  lives  to  the 
new  conditions?  How  substitute  despair  for 
hope  without  an  outcry  against  Infinite 
Justice? 

Fanny  Ray  wasted  no  time  in  such  vain 
speculations.  The  war  was  over — perhaps — 
and  Henry  would  soon  be  coming  home.  She 
would  carry  the  wonderful  news  to  others. 
There  were  lonely  women  waiting  and  watching 
for  tidings  all  around  and  about  Baldy's  Point. 
It  took  her  scarcely  longer  to  have  her  fleet 
little  mare  saddled,  to  mount  it,  and  start  on 
her  errand  of  enlightenment,  than  it  took  Mrs. 
Sellers  to  ensconce  the  tired  man  who  brought 
the  great  news  to  them  in  a  comfortable  arm 
chair,  while  she  went  about  getting  him  a  lunch 
eon  ready  in  remorseful  haste. 

How  brightly  the  sun  shone,  in  spite  of  it  all ! 
What  a  riot  of  sweet  sounds  the  birds  were 
making  there  in  the  woods,  twittering  and 
yodling  and  nest-making  and  mate-hunting! 
How  springy  the  newly  clothed  sod  under  her 
horse's  hoofs !  What  a  waste  of  sweet  scents 


14  J3ALDVS  POINT. 

from  the  dogwood  trees  that  shed  their  snowy 
bloom  on  the  graves  of  last  year's  leaves! 
What  a  heartless  trifler  Nature  must  be  to 
revel  so  in  brightness  and  bloom  at  such  a  tre 
mendous  crisis !  The  fish  were  springing  up, 
out  there  in  the  blue  water  of  the  lake,  that  lay 
miles  inland  from  Baldy's  Point,  in  wanton 
excess  of  sportiveness.  All  the  sounds  and 
sights  and  scents  of  a  fresh  spring  day  enveloped 
her.  She  saw  three  men  fishing.  She  could 
hear  their  careless  laughter  long  before  she 
came  in  sight  of  them,  for  the  button-willows 
and  sassafras  bushes  grew  close  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  She  knew  who  it  was :  old 
Colonel  Mason,  and  Jack  Mason  with  his  friend. 
The  two  young  men  were  home  on  sick 
furlough.  She  reined  in  her  horse  to  send  a 
thunderbolt  hurtling  into  their  midst : 

"Lee  has  surrendered !" 

To  her  horror  she  heard  a  fervent  "Thank 
God !"  and  saw  an  old  man's  head  bared  rever 
ently  in  prayer.  Then  she  remembered  how 
stubbornly  old  Colonel  Mason  had  contended 
for  the  hopelessness  of  their  cause,  and  how 
much  bitter  invective  had  been  hurled  at  his 
reverend  white  head  therefor.  She,  too,  had 
hated  him  before  this,  but  as  she  sped  forward 
she  found  the  echo  to  that  "thank  God"  bub 
bling  up  from  her  own  heart  to  her  lips.  The 


BALDY'S  POINT.  15 

war  was  over— Henry  would  come  back— thank 
God! 

She  was  going  even  then  to  carry  the  news 
to  Henry's  mother.  Together  they  would 
watch  the  sun  go  down  .that  night.  Together 
they  would  endure  the  suspense  of  waiting  for 
those  fateful  guns.  She  was  glad  when  the  day 
showed  signs  of  growing  old ;  glad  when  the 
sun  sank  on  a  level  with  the  locust  trees  in  the 
front  yard  of  the  house  where  she  sat  side  by 
side  with  Henry  White's  mother,  their  hands 
clasped,  their  hearts  beating  tumultuously ' 
glad  when  it  sank  yet  lower,  tinging  the  pure 
white  blossom  clusters  of  the  locusts  with  a 
touch  of  pale  gold  by  way  of  parting  benedic 
tion  ;  glad  when  the  shadows  grew  long  on  the 
eastern  side  of  the  rosebushes  that  were  bending 
beneath  their  weights  of  close-folded  buds; 
glad  that  the  hours  of  suspense  were  almost 
spent. 

It  came  at  last — the  first  gun.  The  touch  of 
gold  faded  from  the  locust  blossoms,  leaving 
them  pallid  and  cold.  Perhaps  it  was  only  the 
sunset  gun,  after  all.  It  woke  the  echoes  every 
evening.  Another.  The  two  women  saw  each 
other's  faces  dimly  through  a  mist  of  tears. 
The  war  had  been  no  far-away,  martial  ab 
straction  to  them.  Their  hearts  were  torn  with 
conflicting  emotions.  Another.  The  cup  must 


1 6  EALDY'S  POINT. 

be  drained.  Defeat  was  bitter.  Again  and 
again,  reverberating,  remorseless,  striking 
heavily  on  quivering  heart-strings,  until  the 
twentieth  gun  was  fired  and — the  end  had 
come. 

In  the  solemn  hush  that  followed  upon  that 
last  report  the  soft  click  of  an  upraised  latch 
was  audible,  and  there,  limping  slowly  toward 
them,  weary  and  worn,  was — that  "thing!" 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  GIRL'S  FREAK. 

FOUR  or  five  miles  still  further  back  than 
the  White  place  was  old  Major  Wilson's 
Cedargrove  plantation.  The  far-reaching  re 
verberations  of  those  twenty  guns  came  to  his 
ears  and  set  him  wondering.  There  was  no 
one  to  tell  him  what  it  meant.  He  clutched 
the  arms  of  the  big  chair  where  he  sat  in 
maimed  helplessness  with  a  fierce  grip.  For  a 
year  now,  he  had  been  what  he  himself  called 
a  "useless  hulk."  Like  poor  Ben  Battle,  of 
immortal  renown,  a  cannon-ball  having  taken 
off  his  legs,  he  had  laid  down  his  arms.  How 
he  would  like  to  order  his  horse  saddled  that 
moment  and  gallop  in  to  Baldy's  Point  to  find 
out  what  those  twenty  guns  meant !  What 
account  would  he  or  old  Commodore  have 
made  of  the  twelve  intervening  miles  of  rough 
country  roads.  He  struck  the  floor  savagely 
with  the  clumsy  wooden  crutches  that  had 
taken  Commodore's  place  so  far  as  any  locomo 
tion  was  concerned.  In  that  maimed  and  help- 
17 


1 8  SALDY'S  POINT. 

less  body  the  fires  of  a  dauntless  spirit  burned 
rebelliously.  He  had  never  been  baffled  in 
all  his  life  before  that  sudden,  swift-rushing 
ball  had  come  on  an  errand  less  merciful  than 
death. 

A  girl's  head  was  suddenly  framed  in  the 
open  window  behind  his  back  "Did  you 
thump  for  me,  father?" 

"Did  I  thump  at  all?"  the  Major  asked,  turn 
ing  his  head  over  his  shoulder  to  look  at  her. 
"It  was  just  a  sort  of  wooden  expletive,  I 
suppose.  Did  you  hear  the  guns,  Amy?" 

"What  guns?" 

"Upon  my  honor,  girl — 

"I  was  turning  my  palmetto  over  in  the  back 
room" — Amy  hurried  to  offer  her  apology; 
there  seemed  a  perpetual  demand  for  apologies 
in  those  days —  "and  you  know  what  a  rust 
ling  it  makes.  I  reckon  that's  the  reason  I 
didn't  hear  them." 

"You'll  turn  to  a  palmetto  bush  some  of 
these  days,"  the  Major  said  fretfully.  "Bring 
me  my  pipe,  child,  will  you?" 

"They  sell  well,"  Amy  answered,  turning 
toward  the  interior,  and  reappearing  presently 
on  the  front  gallery  with  the  tobacco  caddy  and 
her  father's  brierwood  pipe.  "I  have  an  order 
for  two  more  hats  after  this  one  is  done." 

"Who  from?" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  19 

"Deacon  Saunders  and  Elder  Purly,"  she 
laughed  into  his  troubled  face,  and  held  a  light 
ed  match  so  close  to  the  grizzled  mustache  that 
the  Major  threw  his  head  back  violently. 

"Confound  it,  child,  to  set  fire  to  my  nose ! 
There  are  some  things  a  woman  never  can  learn 
how  to  do.  I  hope  you  find  your  nigger  pat 
rons  good  pay.  It's  all  infernal  nonsense,  your 
plaiting  palmetto  hats  for  every  woolly  head 
in  the  quarters.  If  you  were  to  sift  the  plant 
ation  in  a  lime  sieve,  you  couldn't  find  five  dol 
lars  cash." 

"And  couldn't  use  it  if  I  did,"  Amy  said 
lightly,  but  a  tired  look  came  over  her  sweet 
face.  She  did  not  propose  to  argue  it  all  over 
again  with  him.  She  never  had  let  him  know 
how  largely  her  distasteful  work  contributed  to 
his  own  comfort  in  those  moneyless,  meager 
days.  She  stayed  to  see  his  pipe  comfortably 
aright,  and  then  went  back  into  the  room  where 
her  long  coil  of  plaited  palmetto  lay,  with  its 
unplaited  ends  in  the  basin  of  water  by  her 
chair.  She  would  rather  take  her  work  out  on 
the  front  gallery  and  sit  with  her  father,  but 
the  sight  of  it  seemed  always  to  irritate  him. 
She  was  learning  to  adjust  her  life  to  his 
whims.  Perhaps,  some  of  these  days,  when  he 
had  become  more  used  to  his  helplessness,  he 
would  be  less  irritable.  She  worked  on  indus- 


20  BALDY'S  POINT. 

triously  until  it  grew  too  dark  to  piece  the  ends 
of  the  tiny  strips  of  palmetto  nicely,  then  she 
went  out,  taking  her  low,  armless  rocker  with 
her,  and  sat  down  quite  close  to  his  side.  He 
put  out  a  large  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  head 
caressingly.  It  was  his  way  of  apologizing  for 
having  been  harsh  with  her. 

It  grew  dark  soon  on  the  Cedargrove  gallery. 
The  yard  was  choked  with  foliage.  No  one  had 
paid  any  attention  to  trimming  or  pruning  for 
over  three  years  now,  and  the  house  sat  low  on 
the  ground.  A  fitful  breeze  sifted  through  the 
heavy  foliage  of  the  prides-of-China  that  stood 
in  a  solid  phalanx  along  the  front  of  the  yard 
fence.  It  was  their  blossom-tide,  and  the 
purple  clusters  that  swayed  from  every  twig 
scented  the  air  with  cloying  fragrance.  Wher 
ever  the  china  trees  were  not,  in  the  big  front 
yard,  dark,  conical  cedars  were ;  and  a  partial 
April  shower  that  had  scarcely  passed  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  Cedargrove  plantation  had 
sprinkled  them  and  brought  out  all  their  resinous 
sweetness.  Thousands  of  fireflies  flitted  in 
and  out  among  their  dark  branches,  with  a 
celerity  that  multiplied  them  into  a  shower  of 
stars. 

"That  would  be  a  pretty  sight  to  a  stranger," 
said  Amy,  by  way  of  making  talk. 

"And  that,"  the   Major,  answered  with  quer- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  21 

lous  inconsequence,  as  a  full  orchestral  strain 
arose  from  the  throats  of  myriad  frogs  in  the 
horse-pond. 

Amy  laughed  hopelessly.  She  had  no 
apology  ready  for  the  frogs.  There  was  a  loose 
plank  immediately  under  her  chair  which 
creaked  responsively  to  every  pressure  of  the 
rockers,  but  the  frogs  and  that  creaking  plank 
were  practiced  in  concert,  and  excited  no  com 
ment.  The  Major's  mind  had  gone  back  to 
those  unexplained  guns.  Old  Bose,  the  Major's 
hound,  came  softly  pattering  through  the  hall, 
and  lay  down  at  his  master's  feet  with  a  sigh 
of  resignation.  He  had  been  prospecting  around 
the  kitchen  door  with  a  view  to  finding  out 
when  supper  would  be  ready.  The  Cedargrove 
cook  was  lacking  in  that  punctuality  which  Bose 
considered  a  prerequisite  to  happiness  in  this 
world.  A  badly  broken  and  sunken  brick  walk 
led  by  a  strait  and  narrow  way  between  two 
close-set  rows  of  dark  cedars  from  the  front 
gate  to  the  gallery  where  the  Major  spent  the 
most  of  his  life  now.  The  sound  of  a  hand  on 
the  iron  latch  of  the  picket  gate  at  the  end  of 
this  walk  made  Bose  stir  restlessly  at  the 
Major's  feet,  and  lift  his  head  drowsily  to  send  a 
semi-hostile  growl  in  the  direction  of  the  sound. 
The  front  door  was  open,  and  the  candle  that 
stood  on  the  table  in  the  hall  sent  a  band  of 


22  BALDY'S  POINT. 

feeble  light  out  into  the  obscurity  of  the  yard. 
Within  this  band  of  light  presently  the  advanc 
ing  figure  stood  fully  revealed.  He  was  young, 
and  looked  the  athlete  he  was.  From  the 
amount  of  mud  that  was  spattered  up  to  the 
very  top  of  his  boots,  which  were  worn  outside 
his  blue  cottonade  trousers,  it  was  evident  he 
had  ridden  far  and  hard. 

"The  substitute!"  It  was  Amy  who  mut 
tered  these  two  words,  with  an  infinite  amount 
of  scorn,  and  suddenly  vacated  her  chair, 
slipping  around  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
house  so  he  might  not  be  witness  of  her 
flight. 

The  veranda  ran  around  three  sides  of  the 
house,  and  all  the  windows  were  open  to  the 
floor,  so  she  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  inside, 
where  she  groped  her  way  to  a  seat  near  one  of 
the  front  windows.  She  had  caught  some  words 
as  she  turned  the  corner  of  the  house,  which 
made  her  eager  to  hear  more,  but  as  she  never 
had  been  able  to  treat  this  obnoxious  young 
man  with  any  civility  since  he  had  gone  into 
the  army  as  a  paid  substitute  for  another  man, 
been  taken  prisoner,  and  finally  sent  home 
paroled  (some  even  whispered  he  had  taken 
the  oath),  she  preferred  listening  to  him  from 
the  shelter  of  the  sitting-room  curtains. 

Before  he  was  well  up  on  the  gallery  she  had 


JBALDY'S  POINT.  23 

heard  him  ask  her  father  excitedly,  "Have  you 
heard  the  news?" 

The  Major  leaned  forward  with  breathless 
eagerness  to  say,  "No — what?" 

"Lee  has  surrendered."  Unasked,  the  young 
man  flung  himself  heavily  down  in  the  little 
rocker  Amy  had  just  vacated.  He  breathed 
hard  and  excitedly,  and  took  off  his  hat  to  mop 
his  forehead. 

"Who  says  so,  sir?"  It  was  the  roar  of  a 
wounded  animal  rather  than  the  question  of  an 
eager  man. 

"Henry  White." 

Amy  never  knew  exactly  how  she  happened 
to  find  herself  back  on  the  front  gallery  leaning 
over  her  father's  chair,  supporting  her  trembling 
form  by  pressing  both  hands  hard  down  on 
his  strong  shoulders. 

The  light  from  the  feeble  candle  (her  own 
make  from  beef  tallow  molded  in  pieces  of 
cane  root)  fell  full  on  the  substitute's  face. 
It  was  not  a  mean  face,  as  by  rights  it  should 
have  been  if  half  the  things  said  about  Cap  Van 
Dorn  were  true ;  on  the  contrary,  he  carried 
his  well-shaped  head  rather  defiantly,  and  the 
eyes  that  left  the  Major's  stormy  face  to  revel 
in  the  grace  of  Amy's  attitude  as  she  leaned 
over  the  old  man's  chair  were  frank  and  fearless 
and  bright. 


24  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Henry  White,"  he  repeated;  "poor  fellow!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  The  Major 
asked  the  question  contemptuously,  as  if  Henry 
White's  personal  sufferings  were  a  matter  almost 
too  slight  for  comment  in  view  of  the  greater 
and  more  general  disaster  of  Lee's  surrender. 

"Poor  fellow!  I  guess  he's  just  got  home  in 
time  to  die." 

"Can't  you  find  a  chair,  child?"  the  Major 
said,  moving  restlessly  under  Amy's  leaning 
weight.  "Your  hands  are  hot  and  heavy." 

"Ten  thousand  pardons!"  said  Cap,  springing 
nimbly  to  his  feet.  "I  was  so  absorbed  by 
my  news  that  I  forgot  my  manners." 

"Keep  your  chair,  Mr.  Van  Dorn ;  I  will 
bring  a  chair."  Her  voice  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  husky  whisper.  She  glided  past  him 
and  into  the  house,  where  she  crouched  down 
in  the  gloom  and  listened  for  what  was  to 
come. 

The  substitute  resumed  his  seat  and  his  nar 
rative  : 

"Well,  you  see,  I  rode  into  Baldy's  Point 
after  dinner  to  see  if  I  could  pick  up  any  news, 
and  I  tell  you  things  were  stirred  up  there. 
Every  soul  I  met  wanted  to  tell  me  the 
same  story  over:  How  a  whisper  of  the  surren 
der  had  got  out  this  morning  nobody  knew 
from  where,  though  they've  since  found  out 


BALDY'S  POINT.  25 

that  it  came  from  old  man  Ben  Dicks,  Mrs. 
Randolph  Baker's  carriage-driver  he  used  to  be, 
who  was  out  at  the  gunboat  last  night  trading 
lettuce  and  radishes  for  flour  and  tobacco,  but 
he  was  afraid  at  first  to  own  up  to  it ;  and  how 
finally  Henry  White  limped  into  town  just 
about  done  up — it  seems  he  was  discharged 
from  the  hospital  at  Vicksburg  and  turned 
adrift ;  and  how  the  women  all  pounced  down 
on  him  and  abused  him  like  all  wrath  when  he 
said  it  was  true,  and  how  none  of  them  recog 
nized  him  for  Henry  White — small  wonder,  for 
he  looks  about  as  much  like  he  used  to  as  I  look 
like  that  hound  there  at  your  feet,  and  how  he 
wouldn't  give  up  his  name  at  first  because  he 
caught  Miss  Fanny  Ray's  words  when  she  said 
she'd  hate  him  if  he  came  home  looking  like 
that  thing;  and  how  Mrs.  Sellers  took  him  over 
to  her  house  and  gave  him  some  lunch  and  made 
him  rest,  and  how  he  told  her  first  one  who  he 
was,  and  how  hard  she  tried  to  find  some 
sort  of  beast  to  send  him  out  home  on,  and 
finally  found  a  mule  for  him,  and  all  the 
women — 

"Confound  Mrs.  Sellers  and  the  mule  and 
the  rest  of  the  women !"  the  Major  broke  in, 
tempestuously.  "I  want  to  hear  about  Lee 
and  the  surrender." 

Cap  Van  Dorn  had  his  own  reasons  for  being 


26  BALDY'S  POINT. 

very  patient  with  this  irate  veteran,  over  and 
beyond  the  chivalric  pity  he  felt  for  the  man 
who  had  been  so  suddenly  stricken  down  from 
a  position  of  power  and  authority  to  that  of  a 
helpless  cumberer  of  the  earth.  He  was  Amy's 
father ! 

"I  am  afraid,  Major,"  he  answered,  unresent- 
fully,  "you'll  have  to  send  for  Henry  White  if 
you  want  to  hear  anything  more.  I've  about 
told  you  all  I  know." 

"I'll  do  it,  sir.     Amy!" 

Amy  got  up  from  her  crouching  posture 
and  fled  toward  the  rear  of  the  house.  She 
would  not  hear  him  yet  awhile. 

"Amy!" 

There  was  no  use  affecting  deafness  any 
longer.  She  reluctantly  retraced  her  steps 
toward  the  two  men. 

"Here  I  am,  father." 

"Hurry  up  supper,  can't  you,  whik  I  write  a 
note  to  Henry  White.  You'll  take  it,  Van 
Dorn.  I'll  send  Commodore  over  there  for 
him  after  breakfast  to-morrow.  If  he's  the  boy 
he  used  to  be,  he  won't  mind  riding  three  or 
four  miles  to  accommodate  a  helpless  old  hulk 
like  me." 

"But,  father,  he's  not  the  man  he  used  to  be," 
Amy  began  in  a  protesting  voice,  wishing  from 
her  heart  Fate  had  never  put  it  into  Cap  Van 


BALDY'S  POINT.  27 

Dorn's  heart  that  night  to  come  to  Cedargrove 
with  this  disturbing  news. 

But  the  Major  had  struggled  to  his  feet  and 
on  to  his  crutches,  and  stumped  past  her  to  the 
little  ink-stained  writing-desk  that  stood  in  the 
hall,  and  began  his  note  with  energetic  deter 
mination  before  she  could  think  of  any  other 
objection  to  offer. 

And  then  the  supper-bell  rang,  and  she  had 
to  invite  the  substitute  in  to  their  Confederate 
meal  of  corn-meal  muffins  and  fried  pork  and 
sassafras  tea  without  any  sugar  in  it,  and  as 
soon  as  decency  would  permit  after  it,  the 
Major,  consumed  with  a  frenzied  hunger  for 
more  news,  had  thrust  his  note  into  the  young 
man's  hand  and  urged  him  to  deliver  it  at 
Henry  White's  door  before  he  slept,  and  so 
there  was  no  help  for  it. 

Her  cheeks  burned  and  her  eyes  flashed 
that  night  as  she  thought  of  her  father's  impet 
uosity. 

"He'll  think  we  are  selfish  brutes — and  he 
engaged  to  Fanny  Ray !" 

The  two  clauses  of  her  sentence  had  no 
visible  connection  with  each  other. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MORE   CRUELTY. 

"[JAN  NY  RAY,  turning  her  startled  glance 
1  away  from  the  figure  all  tattered  and  torn 
that  came  slowly  limping  toward  the  gallery 
where  she  and  Henry  White's  mother  sat  com 
forting  each  other  with  mute  caresses  for  the 
first  bitterness  of  defeat,  saw  something  in  her 
companion's  face  that  brought  her  to  her  feet 
with  a  cry  of  pain  and  resentment. 

Mrs.  White  had  suddenly  withdrawn  the 
hand  that  had  been  laid  soothingly  about  her 
shoulders,  and,  encircling  her  brow  with  it  to 
aid  the  failing  sight  of  old  age,  was  scanning 
the  advancing  figure  curiously.  As  the  girl 
looked  at  her  she  saw  curiosity  merge  itself  into 
wonder,  wonder  into  half-skeptical  recognition, 
then  the  great  light  of  a  mother's  deathless 
love  dawned  slowly  in  the  faded  blue  eyes,  and 
illumined  her  whole  face.  She  half  rose  to  her 
feet,  only  to  fall  back  trembling. 

"Mother,  don't  you  know  me  either?"  It 
came  in  a  \vail  from  the  lips  of  the  wreck  as  he 
reached  the  foot  of  the  front  steps  and  stood 
28 


BALDY'S  POINT.  *$ 

there  irresolutely,  with  hands  stretched  plead 
ingly  toward  the  elder  woman.  He  would  not 
even  look  at  the  younger  one,  but  his  hands 
dropped  heavily  to  his  sides  as  she  sprang 
passionately  to  her  feet  in  impetuous  protest 
against  this  cruel  shattering  of  her  beautiful 
day-dream. 

"It  isn't  Henry!  It  can't  be  Henry!  It 
shan't  be !  He  had  better  have  died !  Ten 
thousand  times  better!"  With  her  hands 
clasped  to  her  face,  resolutely  determined  not 
to  see  in  this  poor  vagabond  the  stately  young 
lover  she  had  been  so  proud  of,  she  turned  and 
fled,  and  at  the  second  when  the  mother's  arms 
enfolded  him  in  all  his  unsightly  rags,  holding 
him  close  to  her  rejoicing  heart,  a  door  in  the 
upper  hall  of  the  house  slammed  violently,  so 
violently  that  the  physically  worn  man  trembled 
at  the  loud  vibration  as  he  had  never  trembled 
at  the  whistling  of  bullet  or  the  shrieking  of 
shell. 

More  than  an  hour  of  almost  wordless  com 
munion  had  passed  between  mother  and  son 
when  Mrs.  White,  caressing  his  long  brown 
beard  with  a  trembling  hand,  said  gently: 

"Fanny  did  not  recognize  you,  dear;  small 
wonder,  this  changes  you  so  very  much.  I 
must  look  up  some  of  your  old  finery.  I've  had 
a  time  keeping  the  moths  out  of  your  clothes, 


3$  BALDY'S  POINT. 

I  can  tell  you.  Tobacco  became  too  costly, 
and  we  couldn't  get  camphor  for  love  or  money. 
Your  Scotch  tweeds  are  in  a  wonderful  state  of 
preservation.  They  used  to  fit  you  beautifully, 
too."  The  tears  slowly  welled  into  her  gentle 
blue  eyes  as  they  wandered  over  the  shrunken 
limbs  and  stooping  shoulders  of  her  boy,  but 
she  did  not  let  them  fall.  Her  voice  was  quite 
cheerful  as  she  added :  "And  after  you're 
shaved,  and  gotten  into  civilian's  clothes,  we'll 
have  a  good  laugh  at  Fanny  for  not  knowing 
you.  I'll  tell  Ailsy  to  keep  supper  waiting." 

"Let  her  alone!" 

He  said  it  so  sternly  that  Mrs.  White,  who 
had  gotten  up  to  go  to  see  about  the  Scotch 
tweeds  and  the  supper,  sat  down  again  suddenly. 

"Leave  who  alone — Ailsy?" 

"No — Fanny  Ray.  Leave  her  where  she  is, 
mother;  we  do  not — need  her." 

He  said  it  very  bitterly,  but  very  firmly, 
turning  his  eyes  away  from  his  mother's  search 
ing  gaze.  It  troubled  him,  even  though  the 
shades  of  night  were  fast  gathering  about  them 
where  they  sat,  just  where  the  two  women  had 
sat  and  listened  to  the  twenty  guns  at  sunset. 
"As  for  the  Scotch  tweeds  and  the  supper, 
that's  all  right,  and  the  quicker  I  get  into 
them  the  better  Ailsy  will  be  pleased,  I  reckon. 
If  I  remember,  she  was  never  noted  for  patience. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  31 

But    I    insist    that    you    don't    disturb    Fan — 
Miss  Ray." 

He  got  up  to  go  to  his  own  room.  His 
mother,  moving  by  his  side  said,  tremulously : 

"One  question,  Henry.  No  other  woman — 
She  trembled  at  the  anticipation  of  some 
stranger,  some  girl  she  knew  nothing  of,  coming 
there  to  take  the  place  she  had  yielded  up  un 
willingly  even  to  Fanny  Ray,  although  she 
had  known  Fanny  from  the  cradle  up. 

"No,  mother.  There's  no  other  woman  in 
volved.  All  through  the  war  your  image  and 
hers  have  been  my  inspiration  and  my  solace. 
Long  after  I  was  convinced  of  the  hopelessness 
of  things,  I've  looked  forward  to  being  com 
forted  for  every  loss  and  all  the  humiliation  of 
it  by  you  and  by  her.  I'm  afraid  in  my  thoughts 
it  was  always  her  and  then  you.  Forgive  me, 
dear,  if  I'm  a  trifle  shaken  by  it.  I've  pitied 
the  fellows  who  had  no  mother  and  no  sweet 
heart  to  go  back  to.  But  it  will  all  come  right 
soon  enough,  I  reckon.  At  any  rate,  mother, 
I've  got  you,  and  you've  got  me,"  and  he 
halted  there  in  the  hall  to  give  her  a  sup 
plementary  kiss. 

"Fanny  is  devoted  to  you,  son,"  his  mother 
said  magnanimously. 

"Was." 

"The  day  never  passes  that  she  don't  wreathe 


32  BALDY'S  POINT. 

that  photograph  you  had  taken  for  her  with 
fresh  flowers." 

"She  has  been  doing  homage  to  a  memory." 

"Oh,  but,  dear,  you'll  soon  be  the  same  old 
Henry." 

"I  hope  not,  mother.  Indeed,  if  I  have  any 
will  power  left 'in  me  I  will  not." 

"Henry!  I  don't  in  the  least  understand 
you." 

"Perhaps  not,  dear:  you  will  later  on.  I 
believe  I'm  too  tired  for  a  lengthy  discussion 
of  anything  to-night.  If  you'll  lay  out  the 
tweeds  I'll  join  you  again  after  I've  made  my 
self  decent." 

She  turned  and  left  him  in  his  own  bedroom, 
after  laying  the  tweeds  to  his  hand.  Nothing 
in  the  room  had  been  altered  since  that  morn 
ing  when  he  had  ridden  away  looking  so  gay 
and  bright  and  confident  in  his  new  gray  uni 
form.  No  one  but  herself  had  ever  gone  in 
there,  excepting,  once  or  twice,  Fanny  Ray, 
"just  to  have  a  good  cry  all  by  herself."  Poor 
Fanny !  she  would  like  to  go  to  her  now  and 
comfort  her  for  her  disappointment.  But  Henry 
had  looked  so  very  stern  when  he  said,  "Leave 
her  alone,"  that  she  really  thought  it  best  to 
obey  him.  Henry  had  always  been  a  trifle  mas 
terful,  and  she  did  not  mean  to  cross  him  on 
this  the  very  first  night  he  was  at  home.  So, 


BALDY'S  POINT.  33 

instead  of  turning  upstairs  to  the  room  Fanny 
always  occupied  when  she  came  out  to  the 
plantation,  she  went  toward  the  back  door, 
and  groped  her  way  down  the  steps  to  the 
kitchen,  which  set  out  in  the  yard  quite  a  little 
way. 

Three  years  before,  she  would  have  rung  the 
little  hand-bell  that  set  on  the  sideboard  in  the 
dining-room,  for  her  cook  to  come  to  her  for 
orders.  But  things  had  changed  considerably 
in  three  years,  and  as  Ailsy  was  very  old,  and 
not  particularly  good-tempered  at  the  best, 
policy  dictated  her  going  down  the  back  steps 
and  across  the  yard  to  where  Ailsy  sat  in  the 
kitchen  door  smoking  a  very  highly  flavored 
pipe,  by  way  of  solacing  herself  for  the  late 
hour  to  which  supper  was  being  kept. 

"What  have  you  for  supper,  anyhow,  Ailsy?" 
Mrs.  White  asked  in  a  conciliatory  voice, 
peering  over  her  cook's  shoulders  toward  the 
spot  where  a  red  glow  located  the  kitchen  stove. 

"De  same  ole  sev'n  en  six,"  Ailsy  answered, 
rising  stiffly  from  the  door-sill  to  knock  the  ashes 
from  her  pipe.  "Whar  I  gwine  git  enny  fattnin' 
calf  fur  de  progigal  son  on  dis  short  notus?" 

Ailsy  had  been  around  to  the  front  gallery 
and  greeted  the  returned  soldier  as  cordially  as 
was  compatible  with  the  fact  that  he  was  a  "reb 
solger"  and  she  was  a  free  lady. 


34  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Fse  got  some  okry  coffee,  en  some  homly, 
en  some  corn  dudgers.  En  them  es  thinks  dey 
kin  beat  ole  Ailsy  at  mekin  'uv  corn  dudgers 
is  welcome  t'  try." 

"We  couldn't  add  a  few  scrambled  eggs,  I  sup 
pose?"  Mrs.  White  suggested,  persuasively. 

"We  could,  I  "spose,  ef  der  were  any  eggs  t' 
scramble,  but  dey  aint  nary  egg  in  dat  safe,  an* 
I  'lows  I  ain'  gwine  to  dat  hen-house  to  git  bit 
by  no  rattlesnake  nor  mocsun  nuther,  dis  time 
er  night — not  fur  Mars  Abe  Linkum  hisseff." 

Mrs.  White  disappeared  noiselessly.  The 
grass  and  weeds  in  the  back  yard  had  been 
running  riot  for  months.  There  was  no  one  to 
mow  them  down  for  her.  Ailsy 's  fear  of  rattle 
snakes  and  moccasins  was  by  no  means  ground 
less.  The  poultry  yard  afforded  them  excellent 
foraging  ground.  But  if  there  were  any  eggs 
beyond  those  rank  weeds  and  matted  grass, 
they  should  be  on  the  table  by  the  time  Henry 
was  ready  to  sit  down  to  it.  Provided  with 
the  lantern  she  had  taken  from  the  kitchen 
table,  she  sped  with  the  swiftness  of  a  girl 
across  the  absurdly  capacious  yard.  The  grass 
was  wet,  and  her  feet  were  only  protected  by  a 
pair  of  cloth  shoes  which  she  had  made  for 
herself,  stitching  the  new,  clumsy  "uppers"  on 
to  a  pair  of  old  soles,  and  there  was  the  possi 
bility  of  snakes,  that  lent  extra  swiftness  to  her 


BALDY'S  POINT.  35 

motions.  She  returned  soon  in  triumph,  and 
laid  the  eggs  before  Ailsy,  who  looked  from 
them  to  her  somewhat  superciliously : 

"Well,  I  'lows  you  is  in  a  hurry  to  spoil  dat 
boy.  He  do  look  like  he  need  fat'nin'  up, 
doa,  sho.  Dat  w'at  he  git  fer  fightin'  'ginst 
Mars  Abe  Linkum." 

"Never  mind  that  now,  Ailsy,"  said  Mrs. 
White  quickly — she  had  nearly  reached  the 
limits  of  endurance;  "just  see  that  the  supper 
comes  in  hot,  such  as  it  is."  Then,  after  giv 
ing  very  minute  directions  for  to-morrow's 
breakfast,  she  hurried  back  to  the  dining-room, 
to  make  the  best  of  a  poor  matter  there.  She 
looked  at  the  meager  appointments  of  the 
table  ruefully.  It  was  furnished  forth  with 
odds  and  ends.  Everything  had  given  out  or 
been  broken  or  stolen  since  Henry  went  away, 
and  she  hadn't  cared  at  all  for  it  up  to  that 
moment. 

"So  fastidious  as  he  used  to  be,  too!"  she 
said  aloud,  disgustedly  turning  the  cracked  edge 
of  a  saucer  away  from  the  door  so  it  shouldn't 
be  the  first  sight  his  eye  rested  on  when  he 
entered  the  dining-room. 

"I've  had  all  that  sort  of  nonsense  knocked 
out  of  me,  mother,"  he  said,  very  close  behind 
her,  "and  it's  luxury  just  to  be  under  the  old 
roof- once  more." 


36  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"You  won't  think  so  when  it  gets  to  raining. 
The  roof  leaks  awfully,  son.  But  it  is  nice  to 
have  you  back  in  your  old  place.  I  hope  you'll 
be  able  to  eat  our  rough  fare.  I  hear  Mrs. 
Davidson  has  biscuit  and  light  bread  whenever 
she  wants  them,  but  goodness  only  knows  how 
she  gets  the  flour.  Some  people  say  she  trades 
with  the  gunboat,  gets  old  'Manuel  to  carry 
out  butter  and  eggs  in  his  own  name  to  trade 
it  for  flour  and  coffee,  but  I  would  hate  to 
think  it  was  true.  I'd  rather  eat  my  bolted 
corn-meal  and  burnt  okra  coffee  forever  than 
to  trade  with  the  enemy.  You  were  always  so 
fond  of  waffles,  too.  I  came  near  forgetting 
myself  a  little  while  back  and  telling  Ailsy  she 
must  have  waffles  for  your  breakfast.  Dear 
me,  if  I  only  could  set  the  table  I  used  to!" 

He  had  come  in  very  softly.  He  was 
dressed  in  the  old  Scotch  tweeds  and  luxuri 
ating  in  slippers  which  made  him  feel  quite  like 
a  prince  in  the  matter  of  habiliment.  His 
mother,  hovering  over  the  meager  supper- 
table,  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  everything 
for  his  sake,  looking  so  much  older  and  grayer 
than  when  he  had  gone  away  from  home,  now 
as  ever  self-oblivious  and  lamenting  over  his 
enforced  participation  of  the  hardships  that 
had  been  her  daily  portion  for  years,  assumed 
the  proportions  of  a  heroine  in  his  eyes,  and 


BALDY'S  POINT.  37 

before  he  seated  himself  at  the  table  he 
folded  her  once  again  in  his  arms. 

"Darling  mother,  thank  God  I've  come  back 
to  one  heroine !  Thank  God,  you,  at  least,  if 
you  have  changed,  have  only  become  a  truer, 
grander,  more  adorable  woman." 

"You  ridiculous  boy !  me  an  adorable  wom 
an?  Fanny'll  be  jealous.  She's  very  fond  of 
you,  dear;  indeed  she  is.  Now  I'll  tell  Ailsy 
we're  quite  ready  for  her." 

His  face  had  clouded  stormily  at  mention  of 
Fanny's  name,  and  he  moved  away  from  her 
side  silently,  to  take  his  place  at  table.  He  was 
sick  at  heart.  This  was  not  the  home-coming 
he  had  been  picturing  to  himself  for  many 
months.  He  heard,  without  heeding,  his 
mother's  plaintive  complaint  over  Ailsy 's  tardi 
ness  in  bringing  him  up  the  poor  supper.  He 
saw,  without  sympathy,  her  look  of  discontent 
as  the  muddy  stream  of  okra  coffee  flowed  slug 
gishly  from  the  spout  of  the  coffee-pot.  How 
trifling  all  these  little  domestic  affairs  seemed 
just  then !  He  remembered  with  shame  the 
importance  he  had  once  attached  to  a  muddy 
cup  of  coffee.  What  a  worthless  sybarite  he 
had  been  in  those  days  of  luxury  and  leisure ! 

"You  know,  son,"  Mrs.  White  said  plaint 
ively,  "we  haven't  seen  a  grain  of  real  coffee  in 
two  years.  I'm  quite  sure  you  can't  drink  this 


38  BALDY'S  POINT. 

stuff."  She  came  over  from  the  head  of  the 
table  to  put  his  cup  down  by  his  plate.  Then 
she  sat  down  by  his  side.  The  length  of  the 
table  was  too  much  space  between  them. 

He  swallowed  the  hot  mixture  heroically. 
"It's  ambrosia — nothing  short  of  it,  mamma!" 
He  laughed,  laughed  into  her  anxious  eyes  for 
her  sake.  How  strangely  it  sounded  to  him  and 
to  her !  Even  his  laugh  was  changed.  Every 
thing  was  changed.  Nothing  would  ever  again 
be  as  it  used  to  be.  It  was  hard  not  to  let 
the  tears  come.  While  he  ate,  she  poured  a 
plaintive  stream  of  information  into  his  ears. 
How  could  she  help  telling  him  everything?  It 
was  so  sweet  to  feel  he  had  come  back  to  carry 
the  load  for  her  once  more.  He  listened  very 
patiently.  The  clattering  sound  of  a  horse's 
galloping  feet  came  in  to  them  presently  through 
the  open  window  of  the  dining-room. 

"Some  one  riding  a  shod  animal,"  Henry 
said,  putting  the  last  of  the  scrambled  eggs  on 
his  plate.  "I  thought,  from  what  Mrs.  Sellers 
told  me,  horses  and  mules  were  rather  scarce 
about  here  just  now." 

"They  are."  Mrs.  White  lifted  the  lid  of  the 
coffee-pot  to  pry  anxiously  into  its  dark  depths : 
suppose  Henry  should  ask  for  another  cup  of 
the  stuff!  "I  don't  know  of  half  a  dozen 
decent  beasts  left  in  the  country.  Cap  Van 


BALDY'S  POINT.  39 

Dorn  manages  always  to  have  a  horse  to  ride, 
but  then  he  has  his  own  way  of  doing  every 
thing." 

"That  sounds  like  a  slam  at  Cap.  He  used 
to  be  a  prince  of  good  fellows,  and  a  prime 
favorite  of  yours.  What  has  he  been  doing  to 
get  into  your  black  books?" 

"Hello  the  house!" 

"There!  It's  somebody  for  here."  Mrs. 
White  put  down  the  coffee-pot  energetically. 
Events  were  certainly  crowding  upon  each 
other's  heels.  The  lusty.  "Hello  the  house!" 
was  repeated  before  Henry  had  time  to  get  to 
the  front  door  and  respond  : 

"Hello  yourself!" 

"Has  Mr.  White  gone  to  bed?" 

"No.     Who's  that  and  what  do  you  want?" 

"It's  Cap  Van  Dorn,  and — wait." 

"He  certainly  must  think  you  are  anxious  to 
see  him."  Mrs.  White  had  followed  her  son  to 
the  front  door,  and  made  this  comment  in  a 
resentful  undertone  close  at  his  ear.  "I  sup 
pose  he  wants  to  resume  the  old  footing  before 
you've  heard — 

But  there  was  no  time  for  anything  more. 
Cap  Van  Dorn  had  mounted  to  the  gallery 
almost  at  a  leap.  His  voice  was  husky  as  he 
said,  "Old  fellow !  dear  old  fellow !"  and  seized 
Henry  White's  emaciated  hands  to  wring  them 


4°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

affectionately.  "I  know  Mrs.  White  would 
like  to  fling  me  over  the  garden  palings,"  he 
said  in  lighter  vein,  as  he  moved  in  with  them 
toward  the  interior,  "but  I  assure  you  my  com 
ing  here  to-night  was  not  a  voluntary  thing. 
I  happened  to  let  out  to  Major  Wilson  that 
you  had  gotten  home,  Hank,  and  nothing  would 
do  but  I  must  give  you  this  note  before  I  slept. 
Why" — he  fumbled  excitedly  in  one  pocket 
after  the  other. 

While  he  was  looking  for  the  note,  Henry 
White  was  scrutinizing  him  closely.  His 
mother  had  already  thrown  out  two  hints  that 
Cap  Van  Dorn  was  deservedly  under  condem 
nation  in  the  neighborhood,  but  he  had  not 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  conscious  of  deserving 
such  condemnation.  He  held  his  head  as  de 
fiantly  as  of  old,  and  Cap  had  always  carried 
himself  proudly.  His  eye  was  as  keen  and  full 
as  ever  of  "blue  lightning,"  as  the  boys  used  to 
call  it.  His  hair  was  a  trifle  long,  and  he 
looked  rough  enough  with  his  trousers,  the 
fruit  of  the  plantation  loom,  stuffed  into  a  pair 
of  old  army  boots. 

"Ah,  here  it  is !"  He  laid  the  note  in  Henry's 
hand.  "And  now  I'm  off.  No  supper,  thank 
you,  Mrs.  White" — this  in  response  to  a  reluc 
tant  invitation.  "Miss  Amy  was  kind  enough 
to  give  me  some  before  I  left  the  Major's.  I'm 


BALDY'S  POINT.  41 

not  such  a  brute  as  to  want  to  divide  Hank 
with  you  this  first  night.  But  I  did  think  it 
was  worth  my  while  riding  a  mile  or  two  out 
of  my  way  just  to  shake  the  old  fellow's  hand. 
You'll  let  me  come  over  soon  and  have  a  com 
prehensive  talk-over  with  you?"  Mrs.  White 
stayed  behind  this  time,  while  Henry  walked  to 
the  front  door,  leaning  on  his  friend's  arm  as  in 
the  olden  days. 

It  would  go  hard  with  him  but  he  would  sift 
the  charges  against  Cap  very  thoroughly  be 
fore  casting  him  out  of  his  affections.  Had 
the  substitute  divined  his  thoughts?  It  would 
seem  so. 

"Henry,"  he  said,  very  gravely,  turning  on 
the  threshold  to  rest  both  hands  on  his  friend's 
shoulders,  "you're  going  to  hear  a  lot  of  rubbish 
about  me.  I'm  in  bad  odor  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  The  women  quite  hate  me.  And  if 
they  were  right  in  thinking  what  they  do  about 
me,  they  would  owe  it  to  themselves  to  hate 
me.  It  would  have  taken  more  words  than 
I  cared  to  waste  on  the  thing  to  set  matters 
right  with  all  of  them,  so  I've  just  let  it  go. 
But  I  don't  want  you  to  join  in  the  hue  and 
cry  against  me  until — 

"I'll  never  join  in  any  hue  and  cry  against 
you,  Cap,  until — 

"Until  what?" 


42  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Until  by  your  own  confession  you  prove  to 
me  that  you  are  changed  in  character  from  the 
old  Cap  Van  Dorn  I  loved." 

He  could  feel  the  quiver  that  passed  through 
the  strong  frame  of  the  young  man,  but  he 
could  barely  catch  the  whispered  "God  bless 
you,  old  fellow!"  that  fell  huskily  from  his 
lips,  before  he  clattered  down  the  front  steps  in 
his  clumsy  boots,  mounted  his  horse,  and  dashed 
furiously  back  over  the  road  he  had  come. 

"Was  it  worth  his  while  to  interrupt  you  at 
the  first  meal  in  your  own  home  for  that?"  said 
Mrs.  White,  looking  resentfully  at  the  note 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  okra  coffee's 
growing  cold  and  the  scrambled  eggs  clammy 
and  the  corn  dodgers  petrifying. 

"I'm  glad  he  came,"  said  Henry,  indifferently 
gulping  down  the  remnant  of  his  unappetizing 
supper  in  a  way  that  made  his  mother  gaze  at 
him  in  mute  amazement.  "And  he  used  to  be 
so  fastidious!"  she  murmured  regretfully. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MISS   RAY   IN  A   PREDICAMENT. 

MRS.  WHITE  had  long  since  passed  the 
age  when  she  believed  it  possible  to  sub 
sist  on  the  emotions.  Fanny  might  be  very 
unhappy  shut  in  upstairs  there,  but  she  must, 
also,  be  desperately  hungry  by  this  time.  She 
wouldn't  hurt  Henry's  feelings  by  seeming  to 
approve  of  "the  child's  nonsense,"  but  so  soon 
as  ever  he  should  go  to  bed  she  really  must 
carry  Fanny  up  something  to  eat.  It  would 
be  a  comfort,  too,  to  "have  it  out"  with  Fanny, 
and  show  her  how  absurdly  she  was  acting. 
Then  she  wanted  to  complain  to  her  of  Major 
Wilson's  unreasonable  request,  that  Henry 
should  come  over  there  the  next  day. 
Couldn't  they  let  her  have  her  boy  all  to  her 
self  for  one  little  day? 

She  found  Miss  Ray  in  a  pathetic  heap  on 
the  bed.  She  had  sobbed  herself  into  a  state 
of  exhaustion,  and  was  looking  excessively  red 
about  the  eyes  and  swollen  about  the  nose. 

"You  know,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  White  began, 
without  preamble,  "you  are  acting  very  un- 
43 


44  BALDY'S  POINT. 

kindly."  She  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  put  her  offering  of  cold  corn-dodgers  and 
sweet  milk  close  enough  to  Fanny's  red  and 
swollen  nose  to  have  tempted  her  through  that 
organ  if  the  viands  had  not  been  absolutely 
odorless.  "Of  course,  poor  dear  Henry  does 
not  look  as  if  he  had  jusj;  stepped  out  of  a 
bandbox.  And  if  you'd  spend  nine  months  in 
one  of  those  horrrid  military  prisons,  your 
beard  would  be  long  and  shaggy,  too,  and  if 
you'd  had  to  wear  the  same  clothes  for — 

"Hush!  oh,  hush!  I've  been  trying  to  for 
get  how  he  looks.  He  used  to  be  the  perfec 
tion  of  neatness.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died  before 
he  ever  came  home  looking  like  that !  I  am 
never  going  to  look  at  him  again.  I'm  going 
home  to-morrow  before  breakfast,  and  I'm 
going  to — to — oh  !  I  wish  there  was  a  convent 
somewhere,  where — 

"A  lunatic  asylum,  you  mean,"  said  Mrs. 
White  tartly.  Her  patience,  which  was  enor 
mous,  was  finally  exhausted.  She  rose  from 
the  bedside  in  angry  haste,  shaking  it  so  that 
the  milk  dropped  over  on  to  the  corn-dodger, 
which  did  not  improve  Miss  Ray's  Confederate 
supper. 

Up  to  that  moment  she  had  been  steadily 
reminding  herself  of  the  fact  that  Fanny  Ray 
had  a  great  deal  of  excuse  for  feeling  just  as 


BALDY'S  POINT.  45 

she  did.  Herself  as  dainty  and  pure  looking 
as  a  field-daisy,  her  returned  lover's  appearance 
must  have  been  an  awful  shock  to  her.  Then 
Fanny  was  very  young,  and  had  always  been  so 
systematically  indulged  by  her  whole  family 
that  she  had  come  to  look  for  like  considera 
tion  of  her  wishes  at  the  hands  of  fate.  Fanny 
herself  had  meant  that  Henry  should  go 
off  to  fight  the  battles  of  his  country  in  a  beau 
tiful  new  uniform  and  on  a  prancing  horse — 
which  he  had  done ;  and  to  come  back,  after 
annihilating  the  enemy,  covered  with  gold  lace 
and  glory — which  he  had  not  done.  And  her 
grief  at  the  turn  events  had  taken  partook 
largely  of  resentment.  She  had  consumed  the 
evening  drawing  bitter  contrasts  between  the 
forlorn  man  who  had  come  back,  with  the 
buoyant  youth  who  had  gone  away,  and  Henry 
suffered  by  the  contrast. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Mrs.  White, 
turning  upon  her  as  she  reached  the  door,  "that 
Major  Wilson  has  sent  a  note  to  ask  Henry  if 
he  won't  ride  over  there  to-morrow  morning 
and  give  him  all  the  war  news.  It's  natural  for 
the  poor  old  man  to  be  impatient  to  hear  it 
all,  but  he  might  have  let  Henry  rest  a  little. 
He's  going  to  send  Commodore  over  for  him 
to  ride.  I  hope  you  won't  be  so  foolish  as  to 
take  that  long  ride  back  to  Baldy's  Point  on  an 


46  BALDY'S  POINT. 

empty  stomach.  I  will  see  that  you  get  some 
breakfast  as  soon  as  Henry  starts.  Of  course  I 
won't  ask  you  to  breakfast  with  him,  under  the 
circumstances." 

"I'm  going  home  before  breakfast.  He 
must  quite  hate  me  by  this  time.  But — but — 
I  could  not  help  it." 

It  was  the  first  glimmer  of  apology.  Mrs. 
White  seized  upon  it  eagerly.  Things  would 
come  right  yet.  She  didn't  want  Henry  to  lose 
Fanny.  She  had  been  training  herself  for 
Fanny's  mother-in-law  for  three  years  now, 
doing  a  little  incidental  training  of  Fanny  too, 
and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  have  to  commence  all 
over  again  with  some  other  girl.  Moreover, 
the  Rays  were  pre-eminently  desirable  connec 
tions,  and  the  Ray  plantation,  so  far,  had 
suffered  less  than  any  place  in  the  county.  If 
possible,  she  would  much  rather  adjust  matters 
on  the  old  basis.  Good  and  gentle  woman  as 
she  was,  Mrs.  White  was  not  devoid  of  a 
modicum  of  worldly  wisdom. 

"I  should  hate  for  you  and  Henry  not  to 
be — friends,  Fanny.  You'd  better  just  come 
down  in  the  morning  and  make  sort  of  light  of 
it,  you  know;  your  not  recognizing  him,  you 
know." 

But  Fanny  had  not  passed  her  tragic  years. 

"Make  light  of  it !     Make  light  of  losing  my 


BALDY'S  POINT.  47 

bright,  handsome,  dashing  lover!  Make  light 
of  having  my  cherished  memory  of  him  torn 
up  by  the  roots  !  Oh  !  you  cruel,  cruel  woman  !" 

She  had  sat  up  among  the  pillows  to  hurl 
this  reproach  at  the  age-hardened  woman  in  the 
doorway,  and  at  its  climax  fell  back  among 
them  again,  sobbing  bitterly. 

Mrs.  White  turned  away  from  the  room,  and 
shut  the  door  behind  her  with  a  degree  of 
emphasis  that  was  entirely  wasted  for  lack  of 
somebody  to  appreciate  it.  Fanny  was  con 
scious  only  of  herself,  and  Henry  was  blissfully 
unconscious  of  everything,  wrapped  in  the  pro 
found  slumber  that  came  of  extreme  physical 
exhaustion. 

He  was  awake  very  early  the  next  morning. 
What  a  luxurious  awakening  it  was,  too !  Soft 
pillows  under  his  tired  head,  grown  used  to 
prison  hardships ;  fleecy  blankets  over  him — 
how  superfine  their  excellence,  by  contrast ! 
The  tinted  walls  of  his  own  bedroom,  inclosing 
him  almost  as  in  a  welcoming  embrace;  the 
old  pictures,  and  the  hanging  shelves  with  his 
own  books  on  them,  and  the  familiar  majolica 
vases  on  the  mantel-shelf  that  used  to  get 
crowded  up  to  the  brim  with  everything  that 
did  not  properly  belong  in  a  flower-vase,  and 
his  old  straw  hat  on  the  hook  behind  the  closet 
t  door— what  luxury  to  lie  there  and  renew  ac- 


48  BALDY'S  POINT. 

quaintance  with  it  all ;  with  the  many  peaceful 
sounds  of  early  morning  in  the  country  floating 
in  to  him  through  the  open  dormer  window, 
whose  white  muslin  curtain  was  swaying  softly 
backward  and  forward  in  the  fresh  morning 
breeze.  It  pleased  him  to  call  it  his  flag  of 
truce — a  truce  to  all  the  pain  and  the  hardship 
and  the  privations  he  had  undergone  so  willingly 
but  so  uselessly.  He  wondered  why  he  did  not 
feel  Fanny  Ray's  cruelty  more  keenly.  Had  he 
become  case-hardened?  Had  he  been  exposed 
to  the  fierce  heat  of  men's  warring  passions 
with  such  effect  that  a  girl's  petulant  outcry 
against  the  inevitable  failed  to  touch  him?  He 
was  quite  sure  he  had  been  as  faithful  to  the 
memory  of  this  girl  as  she  could  possibly  have 
been  to  his;  and  yet  here  he  was,  quietly 
felicitating  himself  on  clean  sheets  and  soft 
pillows  and  the  peace  of  being  at  home  once 
more,  in  spite  of  the  cruel  attitude  she  had 
assumed  toward  him !  If  he  had  carried  his 
analysis  a  little  deeper  he  would  have  discov 
ered  the  great  underlying  imperative  fact  of 
his  own  anatomy.  He  had  been  such  an  indi 
vidual  nonentity  while  a  soldier  that  now,  when 
the  strain  was  removed,  nature  asserted  her 
rights  violently  and  would  not  be  denied. 
But  he  did  not  carry  his  analysis  any  further. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  a  pacing  horse,  and 


BALDY'S  POINT.  49 

turned  over  languidly  on  his  side  to  wonder 
why  Major  Wilson  had  sent  Commodore  over 
for  him  at  such  a  godless  hour  of  the  morning. 
His  bed  was  one  of  those  immensely  high,  old- 
fashioned  four-posters  that  one  has  to  climb  up 
into,  and  the  windows  of  his  room  were  open 
almost  down  to  the  floor,  so  where  he  lay  he 
could  command  a  long  stretch  of  the  green 
and  grassy  road  that  skirted  the  front  of  the 
plantation  and  led  toward  Baldy's  Point.  Into 
his  line  of  vision  there  presently  swept  the 
pacing  horse  and  its  rider.  It  was  Fanny  Ray 
carrying  her  threat  of  going  home  before  break 
fast  into  energetic  execution.  How  prettily 
she  sat  her  horse  !  It  was  her  daring  horseman 
ship  that  had  first  attracted  him  to  her.  And 
how  .lithe  and  trim  her  form,  with  its  sloping 
shoulders  and  rounded  waist !  Not  even  the 
clumsy  blue  cottonade  skirt  and  the  rough 
palmetto  hat,  tied  down  under  her  chin  with  a 
faded  piece  of  pink  ribbon,  could  disfigure  her. 
He  watched  her  until  she  was  out  of  sight ; 
then  said,  audibly,  with  a  bitter  compression  of 
his  lips,  "So  endeth  that  chapter.  The  next?" 
"Why  shouldn't  you  go  with  me,  mother?" 
he  said,  an  hour  later,  when  the  Wilson  visit 
came  up  for  discussion.  "You'll  be  lonelier  to 
day  if  I  leave  you  than  if  I  hadn't  come  back 
at  all." 


5°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"I  was  thinking  that  myself,"  Mrs.  White 
said  ruefully,  "but  there  isn't  a  mule  or  a  horse 
on  the  place,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"If  I  remember  rightly,  old  Commodore 
works  as  well  in  shafts  as  under  the  saddle. 
We  might  go  in  the  buggy." 

"What  buggy?" 

"Why,  your  buggy,  of  course." 

"Webb  and  Dilsy  rode  away  in  style  to 
Vicksburg  in  it  a  year  ago." 

There  was  no  bitterness  in  her  voice.  These 
things  had  come  to  be  too  much  a  matter  of 
course  for  resentment ;  in  fact,  had  furnished 
food  for  half-hearted  merriment  during  the  war. 
Webb  had  been  her  carriage-driver,  and  Dilsy 
her  chambermaid.  She  had  missed  them  very 
much  more  than  she  had  the  buggy.  But  she 
would  like  to  go  with  Henry. 

"I  tell  you  what  we  could  do,  son,"  she  said, 
rather  timidly.  "If  you  wouldn't  mind  driving 
the  dumping-cart,  I  could  put  a  chair  in  it  and 
go  nicely.  I've  been  wanting  to  get  over  to 
the  Wilsons  for  a  month.  Amy  cures  her  pal 
metto  differently  from  any  I've  seen,  and  I 
want  to  show  her  how  to  make  bluing  out  of 
that  miserable  little  yellow  weed  we've  always 
thought  the  most  useless  thing  in  the  world.  But 
perhaps  you  wouldn't  like  to  drive  the  cart." 

"Why  not?" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  51 

"It  isn't  very  stylish,  you  know,  and  you 
used  to  be  so  very  particular  about  little 
things." 

"That  was  before  I  had  any  big  things  to  be 
particular  about,"  he  said,  smiling  gravely  down 
into  her  anxious  face.  "If  you  can  stand  the 
dumping-cart,  and  Commodore  can,  I'm  quite 
sure  I  shant  object.  Commodore  used  to  be 
quite  a  swell  himself  when  the  Major  and  he 
were  tricked  out  for  a  ride." 

"Poor  Major!"  Mrs.  White  said  it  cheer 
fully  (the  Major  was  an  old  story),  and  hurried 
off  to  see  about  the  dumping-cart  and  to 
inspect  the  harness,  which  was,  after  all,  but  a 
thing  of  odds  and  ends  that  sat  clumsily 
enough  on  Commodore's  sleek  body. 

Never  in  her  palmiest  days,  when  stepping, 
into  her  brett,  drawn  by  the  handsomest  pair 
of  grays  in  the  county,  and  further  adorned 
by  Webb's  imposing  form  on  the  high  driver's 
box,  did  Mrs.  White  make  a  greater  display  of 
dignity  than  she  did  on  that  morning  when 
clambering  into  her  seat  in  the  dumping-cart. 
Indeed,  it  was  an  occasion  that  demanded  the 
full  exercise  of  all  the  dignity  she  could  com 
mand,  for  that  wretched  little  darky,  Tony, 
who  was  holding  the  shafts  down  so  that  the 
cart  should  not  dump  inopportunely,  was  mak 
ing  a  very  disrespectful  display  of  his  white 


52  BALDY'S  POINT. 

i 

teeth,  and  even  Henry,  who  looked  so  much 
handsomer  this  morning  since  he  had  shaved 
off  all  that  horrid  hair  on  his  face,  leaving 
only  his  long  mustache,  seemed  inclined  to 
smile. 

But  it  was  very  nice  jolting  along  through 
the  sweet-smelling  woods  with  him,  and,  her 
tongue  being  once  loosed  by  the  exhilaration 
of  a  change,  she  out-chattered  the  blackbirds 
that  ran  from  the  peach  orchard  and  flew 
before  them  in  black  clouds  as  they  advanced. 

"Why!" 

Commodore  had  shied  violently  and  set  her 
to  rocking  in  her  splint-bottomed  chair  like  a 
vessel  in  a  stormy  sea. 

"There's  a  side-saddle  in  the  road,"  said 
Henry,  glancing  down  at  the  object  which  had 
so  alarmed  Commodore. 

"And  it's  Fanny  Ray's!"  Mrs.  White 
clutched  the  sides  of  the  cart  to  lean  over 
and  make  sure.  "Yes,  there's  no  mistaking  it, 
it's  Fanny  Ray's." 

"She  has  been  thrown,  then."  Henry 
dropped  the  reins  and  stood  up  in  the  cart  to 
look  about  him.  The  road  was  a  plain  wagon 
road  leading  through  the  woods,  at  that  point. 
The  trees  crowded  close  up  to  it  on  either 
side.  There  was  nothing  visible  but  a  lean  cow 
biting  off  the  succulent  heads  of  some  young 


BALDY'S  POINT-  S3 

cane  shoots.  He  sat  down  with  a  sigh  of 
anxiety,  and  gathered  up  the  reins  once 
more. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  White,  consoling  the 
anxiety  she  saw  in  his  face,  "her  girth  broke 
and  she  couldn't  mend  it.  I  think  her  mare  is 
perfectly  safe,  and  she's  quite  capable  of  riding 
on,  just  on  her  saddle  blanket." 

This  was  a  cheerful  view  of  the  case,  and 
Henry  got  down  from  the  cart  somewhat 
slowly  and  laboriously,  for  his  feet  were  un 
trustworthy  yet,  and,  securing  the  side-saddle, 
put  it  into  the  cart  and  drove  on  a  little 
further — for,  perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  not 
ridden  home  on  the  saddle-blanket.  He  drew 
Commodore  up  with  a  violent  jerk  before  he 
had  proceeded  three  yards  further.  There, 
placidly  nibbling  the  short  grass  along  the 
roadside,  was  Miss  Ray's  little  roan  mare,  free 
from  bridle  or  bit.  And  there,  sitting  on  a 
fallen  log,  holding  the  bridle  helplessly  in  her 
hand,  sat  Miss  Ray  herself.  She  was  intensely 
pale  when  she  first  glanced  up  gladly  at  the 
sound  of  wheels,  but  flushed  crimson  when  she 
identified  the  travelers. 

Of  all  the  predicaments  for  a  woman  to  be 
thrown  into  !  Fate  certainly  had  a  spite  against 
her! 

"Are  you  hurt,  Fanny?"     Mrs.  White  projec- 


54  BALDY'S  POINT. 

ted  her  voice  shrilly  ahead  of  her  to  ask 
anxiously. 

She  did  not  answer.  From  under  the  rim  of 
her  rough  palmetto  hat,  whose  shape  had  not 
been  improved  by  her  fall,  she  was  taking  swift 
mental  note  of  several  facts :  Now  that  that 
awful  beard  was  gone,  Henry  looked  a  little 
like  his  old  self.  He  was  shockingly  thin,  and 
the  Scotch  tweeds  hung  on  him  baggily,  but  he 
was  very  handsome  yet.  His  eyes  didn't  look 
bloodshotten  and  hideous  as  they  had  when 
he  had  come  limping  into  Baldy's  Point.  How 
stern  he  looked  !  Of  course  he  hated  her  now, 
and — and — he  was  going  to  spend  the  day  at 
Amy  Wilson's.  They  were  abreast  of  her  now, 
and  he  was  standing  before  her  repeating  his 
mother's  question  quietly. 

"Are  you  hurt?  You  will  let  me  help  you, 
I  hope." 

"My  ankle  turned  under  me  as  I  fell,  and  I 
can't  stand  up.  If  you  will  kindly  catch  and 
saddle  my  horse  for  me,  perhaps  I  can  ride  on." 

"Nonsense  !  it's  not  to  be  thought  of,  Henry." 
Thus  Mrs.  White  from  the  altitude  of  her  chair 
in  the  cart.  "Just  put  her  right  in  here.  We'd 
be  having  her  faint  next.  She  doesn't  know 
anything  about  a  sprained  ankle ;  she  couldn't 
put  it  in  the  stirrup.  Fanny,  do-don't  act  like 
an  obstinate  child!" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  55 

"Will  you  see  first  if  you  can  stand  up  on 
your  foot?" 

He  offered  her  his  hand ;  she  put  hers  in  it. 
She  never  once  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face ;  she 
could  not.  It  was  all  so  strange  and  unreal ! 
He  and  she  meeting  thus,  touching  hands  thus, 
talking  thus,  she  and  the  man  who  had  sworn 
to  love  each  other  forever  and  forever.  She 
rose  swiftly  to  her  feet,  only  to  fall  back  on  the 
log  with  a  cry  of  pain. 

"Pardon  me,  but  we  are  merely  wasting 
time.  I  am  afraid  your  judgment  is  at  fault 
again." 

There  was  a  strong  infusion  of  bitterness  on 
the  word  "again."  He  held  her  hand  firmly  in 
his  grasp  while,  with  his  arm  about  her  waist, 
he  half  carried  her  toward  the  cart.  Mrs. 
White  lent  her  two  strong  and  willing  hands  to 
the  task  of  hoisting  the  young  lady  into  the 
cart  from  which  she  had  considerately  removed 
the  tail-board,  and  when  all  was  done  that  cir 
cumstances  would  permit  of  for  her  comfort, 
Henry  gravely  resumed  his  place  on  the  board 
across  the  front  of  the  dumping-cart,  and  shook 
the  rope-reins  over  Commodore's  back. 

It  was  a  mute  drive.  An  outsider  would  have 
seen  the  element  of  the  ridiculous  largely  pre 
dominant  in  it  all.  But  there  were  no  outsiders 
there,  unless,  indeed,  it  was  Commodore,  and 


56  BALDY'S  POINT. 

this  whole  jaunt  was  a  purely  business  transac 
tion  with  him. 

Mrs.  White  was  thinking,  comfortably,  how 
nicely  Fate  had  arranged  to  bring  these  two 
young  people  together  again ;  and  now,  barring 
the  pain  in  poor  Fanny's  swollen  ankle,  every 
thing  was  as  right  as  could  be ;  she  was  inclined 
to  be  talkative,  but  met  with  no  encouragement. 
Fanny  was  thinking  that  it  would  have  been 
much  kinder  of  that  miserable  little  pony, 
whom  they  had  left  in  the  woods  to  find  her 
own  way  home,  to  have  killed  her  outright  than 
to  have  left  her  to  be  carried  home  in  a  dump 
ing-cart  by  the  man  whom  she  had  repudiated 
and  insulted  twice  in  twenty-four  hours.  And 
Henry  was  thinking  that  perhaps  he  ought  to 
be  thankful  for  having  found  out  the  purely 
selfish  nature  of  the  girl  he  had  asked  to  be  his 
wife,  before  they  had  taken  upon  them  those 
irrevocable  vows  that  bind  so  many  uncon 
genial  spirits  together  for  life.  He  was  a  poor 
man  now,  and  had  absolutely  nothing  but  him 
self  to  offer  any  woman,  and  M'ss  Ray  had 
been  very  prompt  in  expressing  an  opinion  of 
that  "self."'  It  was  a  relief  to  all  three  of  them 
when  the  really  suffering  girl  was  finally  trans 
ferred  from  their  keeping  into  her  mother's, 
and  the  cart  was  once  more  on  the  Wilson  road. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   LOYAL   FRIEND. 

IIJT'ITE    folks     cert'n'y    is    onreasonable. 
VV    Chile,  does  you  know  what  day  er  de 
week  dis  is?" 

The  cook  at  Cedargrove  suspended  the  hand 
scrub-brush  with  which  she  was  vigorously 
scouring  her  kitchen  shelves,  to  make  this 
chronological  inquiry  of  Amy,  who  stood  look 
ing  at  her  with  a  queer  admixture  of  apprehen 
sion  and  resolution  in  her  eyes. 

"Friday,"  the  "child"  answered,  with  the 
promptness  of  a  well-regulated  calendar. 

"En  does  yer  know  what  termorrer  '11  be?" 

"Saturday." 

"Well,  den,  does  yer  know  w'at  gwine  happ'n 
de  Sund'y-day  arter  dat  Saterday?" 

Amy  projected  her  mind  forward  by  two 
days,  then  said  apologetically,  quite  as  if  she 
stood  self-convicted  of  an  enormous  share  of 
that  "onreasonableness"  which  her  cook  had 
divided  impartially  among  w'ite  folks  gen 
erally  : 

57 


5 8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Oh,  I  forgot!  Protracted  meeting  begins 
on  Sunday." 

"Kose  you  forgits.  W'ite  folks  mos'  genully 
do  forgits,  dese  days.  But  doa  I  ain'  forgit. 
Dat  w'at  I  'sumin'  all  my  Friday  fur  er-scourin' 
stidder  Saturday,  'kase  Fse  got  mo'n  'nough  t' 
do  t'morrer  wid  a  starchin'  uv  my  w'ite  ruffle 
petticoat  en  a-borrerin'  uv  Sis'  Santhy's  year- 
rings  t'  w'ar  t'  'stracted  meetin',  en  her  livin' 
plum  t'yother  side  er  place.  Cert'n'y  dese  is 
times  uv  refreshin',  bless  de  Lam,'  en  yhere 
you  come  pest'rin'  'bout  a  puddin'  fur  dinner! 
W'ite  folk  cert'n'y  is  onreasonable.  W'at  good 
pudding  gwine  do  yo'  everlastin'  soul  w'en  de 
debbil  summon  you,  tell  me  dat,  chile?" 

It  had  been  a  plea  for  the  honored  guest 
that  Commodore  would  presently  bring  to 
Cedargrove  in  triumph.  If  she  could  have  pre 
vented  the  sending  of  that  note  by  Cap  Van 
Dorn  she  certainly  would  have  done  so,  but  if 
Henry  White  actually  was  imminent  she 
should  like  to  make  something  of  a  festa  of  it. 
There  was  no  danger  of  his  thinking  she  was 
"making  too  much  of  him,"  for  hadn't  she  been 
the  very  friend  to  whom  he  had  confided  his 
intention  of  proposing  to  Fanny  Ray?  How 
old  Henry  had  always  seemed  to  think  her! 
He  used  to  ask  her  advice  as  if  she  had  been 
years  and  years  older  than  himself  instead  of 


£ALDY'S  POINT.  59 

one  whole  year  younger.  She  supposed 
motherless  girls  always  were  old. 

These  reminiscent  thoughts  chased  each 
other  through  Amy's  brain  as  she  advanced 
boldly  into  the  kitchen,  resolutely  unfolding  a 
piece  of  white  tarlatan  she  had  brought  with 
her.  (The  Major's  daughter  had  moved  all 
her  life  in  a  very  contracted  sphere — this  to 
account  for  the  stress  laid  upon  that  pudding.) 
She  was  going  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den. 

"Aunt  Melindy,  I  am  going  to  make  a  Con 
federate  pudding  for  dinner.  I'll  bolt  the  meal 
myself,  and  then" — she  stopped,  aghast.  What 
was  the  next  step?  It  was  Melindy  who  had 
first,  by  a  stroke  of  genius,  evolved  a  pudding 
out  of  bolted  corn-meal,  and  the  secret  was 
locked  up  in  her  unpropitious  breast. 

"En  den?"  Melindy  folded  her  shining  arms 
and  smiled  maliciously  at  the  discomfited 
novice. 

"And  then,"  said  Amy,  with  a  disarming 
smile,  "you  are  going  to  finish  it  for  me.  You 
needn't  bother  about  the  white  petticoat.  I'll 
give  you  one  for  Sunday,  and—"  she  hesitated. 
It  was  possible  to  pay  too  dear  for  her  pudding, 
even  if  it  was  for  the  refreshment  of  a 
returned  hero.  (She  simply  wanted  him  to  feel 
very,  very  welcome,  you  know.) 

The  shelves  were  scoured  and  the  pans  were 


60  BALDY'S  POINT. 

all  rearranged  on  them,  and  Melindy  was  at 
leisure  to  conclude  the  bargain.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  a  compromise  was  possible;  she 
beamed  persuasively  on  the  young  lady. 

"You  ain'  got  any  coat,  honey,  you  sorter 
tired  of,  is  you  ?  Dat  black  alpacker  er  yo'n, 
now,  ud  be  de  ve'y  thing  t'  w'ar  to  'stracted 
meetin'.  Wat  yer  tek  fur  it?  Lindy  ain' 
gwine  t'  be  hard  on  you." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  selling  it  at  all,"  Amy 
said,  somewhat  timidly.  A  decided  refusal 
might  jeopardize  the  day's  dinner  fatally.  "I 
don't  think  it  would  fit  you  either,  Aunt 
Lindy.  You're  a  good  deal  larger  than  I  am." 

"Mout  be  a  leetle  tight  'bout  de  wais',  en 
sorter  choky  'bout  de  neck,  but  you  kin  fin' 
time  t'  let  it  o.ut  'twix'  now  en  Sund'y-day. 
I'se  had  a  sorter  hanker  fur  dat  alpacker  dis 
long  time.  Zhere,  you  give  Lindy  dat  piece  er 
talteten,  eny  you  git  back  in  de  house  en  prink 
up  fer  yo'  beau,  en  Lindy'll  hev  de  bes'  dinner 
in  dat  house  you's  eat  dis  many  a  day.  I  did 
'low  t'  br'ile  dem  chickins  in  de  fatnin'  coop  fer 
you  en  yo'  pa's  Sund'y-day  dinner,  but  I  kin 
git  some  mo'  fer  dat.  Clar  out,  chile !" 

It  was  with  qualified  satisfaction  that  Amy 
resigned  the  tarlatan  to  her  cook  and  "cleared 
out"  to  order.  She  knew  the  dinner  would  be 
all  right,  but  she  also  knew  what  a  price  she 


BALDY'S  POINT.  6 1 

would  pay  for  it.  When  Melindy  should  go  to 
meeting  next  Sunday  it  would  be  in  her,  Amy's, 
black  alpaca  dress,  and  other  requisitions  from 
her  already  depleted  wardrobe.  People  were 
already  beginning  to  wonder  how  the  Wilson 
establishment  was  "kept  going."  The  Major 
disabled,  no  money  coming  in,  no  white  man 
to  manage,  only  Amy  to  superintend  and  sug 
gest,  and  (she  could  have  added)  to  sacrifice. 

But  it  was  not  of  her  sacrifices,  past  or  im 
pending,  that  she  was  thinking  of  as  she  walked 
back  across  the  yard.  She  went  straight  into 
her  own  room  to  take  one  more  furtive  look 
into  the  glass  that  always  sent  her  away  in  a 
humble  frame  of  mind.  She  would  like  to 
"prink"  a  little,  as  Melindy  had  advised,  but 
she  must  set  the  dinner-table  herself  to-day. 
She  could  not  trust  Mandy  to  do  it ;  Mandy's 
disposition  of  the  knives  and  forks  and  salt 
cellars  was  so  absolutely  original  and  in  such 
reckless  defiance  of  all  accepted  manuals  on  the 
subject.  She  wouldn't  care  to  have  Henry  see 
her  at  it ;  he  might  think  he  was  giving  trouble 
— trouble,  indeed !  How  could  he  tell  how 
tumultuously  her  heart  beat  at  the  prospect  of 
seeing  him  again  once  more?  She  hoped  she 
could  find  a  few  yellow  jessamine  blossoms; 
they  would  look  so  pretty  mixed  with 
the  white  locust  in  a  flat  dish  on  the  table. 


62  BALDY'S  POINT. 

How  faded  and  old  that  glass  made  her  look! 
Would  Henry  think  so,  too?  She  hoped  Me- 
lindy  wouldn't  send  the  chickens  in  half  raw, 
but  the  time  had  gone  by  when  she  dared  give 
advice.  How  would  a  piece  of  colored  ribbon 
at  her  throat  and  in  her  hair  seem?  If  she'd 
only  dared  to  give  more  explicit  and  positive 
directions  to  her  cook.  She  hadn't  worn  a 
colored  ribbon  in  her  hair  for — oh,  for  ever! — it 
seemed  so  long  since  there'd  been  any  use  of  it 
all ;  father  liked  her  just  as  well  without.  How 
proud  Fanny  Ray  must  feel,  now  that  the  war 
was  over,  and  Henry  back  well,  and — into 
this  medley  of  reflections  Mrs.  White's  plaintive 
voice  was  projected  as  Mrs.  White's  mature 
arms  enfolded  her  affectionately. 

"Here  I  am,  my  dear!  I  know  you  didn't 
expect  me  too,  but  I  just  couldn't  let  Henry 
leave  me  the  very  first  day,  and  he  said  it 
wouldn't  do  at  all  to  disappoint  the  Major, 
especially  after  he'd  taken  the  trouble  to  send 
Commodore  over  for  him,  and  so  we  just  com 
promised  on  the  dumping-cart,  and  it's  well  we 
did,  for  who  should  we  find  sitting  on  the  side 
of  the  road,  with  the  bridle  in  her  hand  and  a 
sprained  ankle,  but  Fanny  Ray,  and  that's  the 
reason  we're  about  an  hour  behind  time,  be 
cause,  of  course,  we  couldn't  leave  her  sitting 
there,  although,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was 


BALDY'S  POIXT.  63 

very  trying  to  her,  and  to  Henry  too,  but  I 
suppose  Henry's  learned  to  stand  fire  pretty 
well,  for  he  was  just  as  cool  as  a  cucumber,  and 
lifted  her  into  the  cart  as  tenderly  as  if  she'd 
been  his  own  mother  with  sprained  ankle, 
which  ought  to  have  made  her  feel  like  coals 
of  fire  were  being  heaped  on  her  head,  but  it's 
hard  to  heap  coals  of  fire  on  some  people's 
heads,  for  they  won't  stay  heaped,  and  we  just 
stopped  in  front  of  the  Rays  long  enough  to 
tell  Mrs.  Ray  to  put  some  balsam  apple  to  the 
ankle,  and  then  drove  right  straight  on  here. 
How  very  sweet  you  do  look,  Amy,  never  saw 
a  girl  like  you  !" 

Mrs.  White  had  delivered  her  budget  breath 
lessly  while  getting  out  of  her  bonnet  and 
smoothing  the  thin,  wavy  hair  about  her  deli 
cate  temples  and  shaking  out  the  stiffly-starched 
calico  dress,  which  had  not  profited  by  the  long 
ride.  Mrs.  White  was  what  people  called  "a 
talker."  Not  that  she  devoted  her  life  ex 
clusively  to  that  vocation,  but  when  she  was 
in  a  good  humor  she  generally  found  plenty  to 
say,  and  to-day  she  was  in  prime  order  for 
talking.  Henry's  return,  and  the  ride  over  the 
country  roads  and  through  the  wide  fields 
where  the  yellow  camomile  flowers  and  the 
low-running  sprays  of  the  dewberry  tenderly 
the  neglected  furrows,  had  proved 


64  BALDY'S  POINT. 

exhilarating.  Happiness  had  loosed  the  flood 
gates. 

Amy  looked  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way,  waiting 
patiently  to  ask : 

"Why  should  Henry  want  to  heap  coals  of 
fire  on  Fanny  Ray's  head?" 

"Oh,  my  child,  Fanny  has  acted  so  ridicu 
lously  !  But  it  will  all  come  right.  Henry's 
devoted  to  her  and  she  to  him.  I  could  see 
that  in  the  remorseful  way  she  looked  at  him 
when  he  parted  from  her  so  coldly  at  her 
mother's.  You  see,  my  poor,  dear  boy  did 
look  worse  than  a  runaway  darky  yesterday, 
with  his  great  ragged  beard  and  his  frazzled- 
out  uniform  and  his  bare  feet,  and  she  didn't 
know  him,  simply  did  not  know  him.  There 
was  no  put-on  about  it." 

"Not  know  Henry  White?" 

The  girl's  eyes  and  voice  were  full  of  amazed 
incredulity.  What  possible  disguise  could  con 
ceal  his  identity  from  her? 

"But  it  will  all  come  right,"  Mrs.  White  said 
again  cheerfully,  taking  a  very  much  starched 
handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket  and  rubbing  it 
vigorously  between  her  hands  by  way  of  lim 
bering  it  slightly  before  application. 

"Yes,  it  will  all  come  right."  Amy  repeated 
her  words  in  a  mechanical  way ;  then,  more 
animatedly,  "Now  I  must  go  tell  Mr,  White 


BALDY'S  POINT.  65 

how  glad  I  am  he's  gotten  back  home  unin 
jured.  Think  of  poor  papa !  I'm  afraid  he 
will  have  about  a  bushel  of  questions  to  answer 
before  he  can  satisfy  father." 

She  moved  toward  the  door  with  her  arm 
locked  in  the  older  woman's.  She  was  tall  and 
slim  and  straight,  and  carried  her  head  with 
an  erectness  that  was  almost  defiant,  but  the 
defiance  was  absolutely  contradicted  by  the 
gentleness  of  her  expression  and  the  sweet  sen 
sitiveness  of  her  pretty  mouth.  Just  now  her 
eyes  were  unnaturally  bright,  and  a  vivid  red 
spot  shone  on  either  cheek.  Mrs.  White  turned 
to  look  at  her  inquiringly,  laying  a  finger  on 
the  wrist  nearest  her  before  delivering  herself 
judicially.  The  pulse  was  beating  furiously. 
"Amy  Wilson,"  she  said,  severely,  "you're  hav 
ing  those  horrid  chills  again.  You're  getting 
one  right  now.  I  can  feel  the  shivers  running 
through  your  body.  Did  you  take  those  red- 
oak  bitters  I  wrote  you  about?" 

"I've  taken  nothing  but  bitters  for  years 
past,"  Amy  said,  withdrawing  her  hand  and 
moving  on  by  herself. 

"Then  I'm  surprised  you  are  not  stronger," 
said  Mrs.  White,  applying  the  preternaturally 
stiff  handkerchief  to  her  nose  with  reddening 
effect. 

"So  am  I,"  said  Amy  quietly. 


66  SALDY'S  POINT. 

But  Mrs.  White  heard  only  what  was  said, 
and  continued,  practically.  "After  you  and 
Henry  have  said  'howdy'  we  will  have  to  let  the 
men  entertain  each  other,  dear.  I've  been  six 
months  getting  over  here,  and  I've  got  a  lot  to 
see  and  to  talk  about,  that  they  won't  care  to 
hear.  You  really  must  tell  me  how  you  make 
your  starch.  Mine  is  simply  abominable.  I 
won't  have  any  cuticle  at  all  left  pretty  soon. 
But  I  suppose,  now  that  we're  whipped,  we'll 
be  able  to  get  some  of  the  necessaries  of  life 
again.  Did  you  hear  about  Tillie  Mosby  going 
up  to  Vicksburg,  on  a  government  transport,  as 
soon  as  ever  she  heard  Vicksburg  had  fallen, 
and  actually  taking  two  bales  of  cotton  on  board 
with  her,  and  coming  back  just  loaded  down 
with  things  to  eat  and  to  wear?  They  say  she 
bought  a  pair  of  shoes  for  every  member  of 
that  big  family,  and  a  whole  bolt  of  muslin,  and 
Mrs.  Mosby  has  had  tea  and  sugar  ever  since. 
Well,  those  that  can  enjoy  things  gotten  in 
that  way  are  welcome  to  them,  but  I'd  rather 
wait  for  the  fight  to  be  fought  out  before  I  take 
any  comfort  of  that  sort.  I'd  like  to  know 
what  good  Oolong  tea  and  crushed  sugar  and  a 
whole  bolt  of  domestic  would  have  done  me, 
before  I  knew  whether  Henry  was  coming  back 
or  not,  and  then  maybe  with  only  one  leg  and 
no  arms.  Thank  Heaven  he's  come  back  with 


BALDY'S  POINT.  67 

all  his  legs  and  arms  and  his  faculties  too,  but 
the  Scotch  tweeds  do  hang  desperately  baggy 
on  him,  poor  fellow !  and  his  cheeks  are  so 
hollow  you  could  lay  a  walnut  in  either  one  of 
them.  Henry,  my  dear,  here's  Amy.  You 
haven't  forgotten  Amy,  but  you  can't  call  her 
'little  Amy'  any  longer." 

It  had  been  really  necessary  to  attract  his 
attention.  He  was  sitting  facing  the  Major, 
and,  with  his  back  to  the  front  door,  was  trac 
ing  with  a  piece  of  chalk,  on  the  gallery  floor,  a 
diagram  of  the  respective  positions  of  Federal 
and  Confederate  troops  at  the  time  of  the  sur 
render.  And  Amy  was  so  absurdly  timid  she 
would  have  stood  rooted  to  that  door-sill  for 
ever  before  advancing  another  step.  "Timid 
ity"  was  what  Mrs.  White  called  it. 

Her  son  had  dropped  the  piece  of  chalk  and 
come  forward  promptly  enough  at  her  bidding. 
Amy  put  out  one  hand  hesitantly,  then  both, 
eagerly,  impulsively,  and,  as  she  held  his,  warm 
and  brown  and  muscular  as  they  were,  in  a 
firm,  tight  clasp,  the  tears  welled  slowly  into 
her  eyes,  and  she  looked  at  him  through  a  mist 
of  divine  pity. 

How  tall  and  stately  and  pure  she  was ! — like 
some  perfect  ascension  lily  that  had  bloomed 
in  an  out-of-the-way  nook.  Time  had  dealt 
very  kindly  with  her.  He  felt  old  and  rugged 


68  BALDY'S  POINT. 

by  the  side  of  her,  and  very  conscious  of  the 
baggy  tweeds. 

"It  is  good  of  you  not  to  have  forgotten  me," 
he  said,  "or  rather  to  have  recognized  me." 
He  bowed  low  over  their  clasped  hands. 

"We're  so  glad,  so  very  glad,  to  have  you 
back  again !" 

Her  "we"  was  comprehensive  and  imper 
sonal.  It  had  always  been  her  aim  to  make 
her  intercourse  with  Henry  White  as  imper 
sonal  as  possible.  She  felt  the  necessity  of 
making  it  so  now  pressing  more  strongly  upon 
her  than  ever. 

"Yes,  but,  Henry" — the  Major  was  gazing 
steadily  down  on  the  chalky  seat  of  war — "how 
in  the  mischief  did  Lee  get  there?" 

He  brought  his  crutch  vigorously  down  on 
the  puzzling  diagram,  and  held  it  there  while 
he  waited  impatiently  for  the  young  man  to 
return  to  his  chair. 

'Tm  afraid  you  will  find  father's  grown  to 
be  terribly  tyrannical,"  Amy  said  lightly,  mov 
ing  with  him  toward  the  Major  and  the  dia 
gram.  She  was  not  sure,  if  she  stood  still 
another  second,  that  more  tears  would  not 
come  and  crowd  those  that  she  had  concealed 
by  the  dropping  of  her  lids  into  undesirable 
conspicuity. 

He  looked  so  dreadfully  worn  !     The  bitter- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  69 

ness  of  defeat  and  disappointment  had  graven 
harsh  downward  curves  in  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  He  stooped,  too,  and  he  had  once 
been  so  very  straight.  Even  its  voice  had  lost 
its  clear  ring;  he  spoke  slowly  and  deliber 
ately,  almost  languidly,  now,  quite  as  if  he  had 
outlived  all  necessity  for  being  brisk  or  posi 
tive  about  anything.  Yes,  he  was  very  much 
changed.  He  looked  stern,  too ;  there  was  an 
almost  severe  look  in  his  eyes — and  yet — she 
liked  him  better  so.  The  light-hearted  boy 
Henry  White  had  been  left  somewhere  along 
the  line  of  march,  and  in  his  stead  an  earnest, 
thinking,  deliberating  man  had  come  back  to 
them.  Would  Fanny  Ray  think  it  an  improve 
ment? 

He  had  bent  once  more  over  the  diagram 
with  the  chalk  in  his  hand,  not  conscious  that 
the  stately  young  girl  who  leaned  over  the  back 
of  the  Major's  chair  in  apparent  absorption  in 
his  explanation  of  the  disastrous  finale  to  all 
their  hopes  was,  in  reality,  revising  and  amend 
ing  her  own  girlish  estimate  of  himself. 

Passive  participation  in  the  activities  of 
other  people  was  not  Mrs.  White's  forte.  She 
tired  very  soon  of  the  chalked  lines  on  the 
floor  and  her  own  enforced  dumbness,  so  she 
proposed  an  inspection  of  Amy's  poultry  yard 
and  vegetable  garden,  to  which  proposition 


70  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Amy  yielded  a  reluctant  inward  assent,  but 
moved  away  with  her  promptly. 

"I  felt  a  little  reluctant  at  asking  you  to 
come  over  to  me  so  soon,  my  boy,"  the  Major 
said,  after  the  women  had  drifted  away  from 
them,  "but  you  can't  imagine  what  infernal 
torment  it  is  to  sit  here  and  guess  at  what  has 
been  going  on,  and  not  be  able  to  lend  a 
hand." 

"I  think  I  can.  I  think  I  can  imagine  what 
it  would  have  been  to  me  to  lose  my  legs 
in  the  very  first  engagement,  and  I  don't  think 
you  could  ask  anything  of  any  one  of  the  boys 
that  have  grown  up  about  you,  Major,  that 
they  wouldn't  be  glad  to  do.  I'm  sure  I  can 
speak  for  Cap  and  myself." 

"I  feel  pretty  sure  of  you,  my  boy." 

"And  Cap?" 

He  said  it  questioningly.  Here  was  a  third 
fling  at  the  boy  of  all  others  whom  he  used  to 
love  and  honor  most. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  him,  that's  all.  I  wish 
you'd  bring  me  my  tobacco  box  off  the  hall 
table,  Henry — I'm  a  useless  hulk  these  days; 
and  if  you'll  open  the  table  drawer  you'll  find 
another  pipe.  Fetch  it  along.  We've  got  time 
for  a  good  smoke  before  dinner.  Melindy's 
so  infernally  slow,  your  opportunity  for  culti 
vating  an  appetite  is  better  than  good.  I'm 


BALDY'S  POINT.  1\ 

afraid  Amy's  inclined  to  indulge  the  servants 
too  much.     They  walk  over  her  rough-shod." 

Henry  went  after  the  tobacco  box.  He  was 
fully  impressed  with  the  fact  that  the  Major 
wanted  to  change  the  subject.  He  expected  to 
see  Van  Dorn  again  in  a  few  days,  and  he 
supposed  then  he  would  hear  Cap's  own  version 
of  the  strange  attitude  the  neighbors  had  all 
assumed  toward  him  ;  but  meanwhile  he  would 
like  to  get  Major  Wilson's  version.  Irascible 
and  high-tempered  as  the  old  man  had  always 
been,  he  was  honorable  to  the  core,  and  what 
ever  version  he  gave,  it  was  sure  to  be  the  one 
necessity  had  compelled  him  to  indorse.  Cap 
Van  Dorn  must  have  changed  radically  if  he, 
too,  was  not  honorable  to  the  core.  He  saw 
the  Major's  pipe  well  alight  before  saying,  with 
a  simple  directness  that  did  him  honor: 

"Major,  I  want  to  hear  what  this  is  about  Cap 
Van  Dorn.  My  mother  has  thrown  out  some 
damaging  hints,  and  Cap  himself,  hurried  as  he 
was  last  night,  gave  me  to  understand  that 
he  was  in  bad  repute  in  the  neighborhood.  I 
wouldn't  let  mother  explain.  Blessings  on 
her,  she's  never  been  able  to  forgive  any  man 
who  ran  less  risk  of  being  killed  than  her 
precious  offspring;  as  for  Cap — well,  he,  pre 
sumably,  would  be  a  partial  witness.  I  want  to 
hear  your  version  of  it." 


72  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Version  !  Why,  confound  it,  sir,  that's  what 
I  haven't  got.  Wish  I  had.  I  hate  to  be 
baffled.  I  hate  mysteries  of  any  sort.  But 
Cap  Van  Dorn's  conduct  has  been  and  still  is 
the  most  baffling  and  mysterious  thing  I've 
ever  had  to  cope  with.  That's  what  riles  me 
so."  The  Major  puffed  angrily  and  silently  at 
his  short  briarwood  pipe  for  a  few  seconds. 

"But  what  has  he  done?"  Henry  White 
asked,  resolutely.  "That's  what  I  want  to  get 
at,  and  what  I  intend  to  get  at." 

"Well,  you  know  Briarwood,  the  Van  Dorn 
place,  is  so  tucked  in,  'way  back  there  on 
Panther  Bayou,  that  the  very  dickens  might  be 
to  pay  without  anybody  being  much  the  wiser 
for  it.  It  was  when  I  came  back  all  shot  to 
pieces  that  I  found  Cap  Van  Dorn's  name  was 
afloat  in  a  rather  unpleasant  way.  People 
said  that  while  every  man  that  could  shoulder 
a  gun  had  hurried  off  to  the  war,  Van  Dorn 
stayed  behind  like  a  skulking  hound,  and  didn't 
seem  to  have  any  interest  in  life  but  the  crops 
on  Briarwood.  But  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
first  year  of  the  fight,  it  got  out  that  he  finally 
enlisted  as  Amos  Baker's  paid  substitute,  the 
racket  was  pretty  lively,  I  can  tell  you.  He 
was  back  home  in  little  more  than  eighteen 
months  after  he  left.  Some  say  he  deserted. 
Some  say  he  was  taken  prisoner  and  discharged 


BALDY'S  POfNT.  73 

on  taking  the  oath.  Nobody  knows  when  he 
got  back  nor  how.  Like  a  thief  in  the  night,  it 
looks  like.  Very  few  people  ever  get  to  Briar- 
wood,  but" — the  Major  looked  around  cau 
tiously.  Amy's  and  Mrs.  White's  bonneted 
heads  out  there  near  the  calf-pen  reassured  him  ; 
notwithstanding  which  he  leaned  over  and 
dropped  some  words  cautiously  into  Henry 
White's  ears.  "People  who  have  been  in  the 
neighborhood  say  there's  something  wrong  at 
the  Briarwood  house.  The  Van  Dorns  were 
always  notoriously  hospitable,  but  this  one 
never  allows  an  outsider  to  sleep  under  his  roof. 
If  he's  compelled  to  give  a  traveler  a  night's 
lodging,  he  puts  him  up  in  the  overseer's 
house,  and  you  know  the  size  of  the  Briar- 
wood  house  as  well  as  I  do.  And  that's  where 
the  mystery  comes  in.  I  don't  approve  of 
mysteries  or  mystifiers,  and  the  consequence 
is  I've  felt  like  having  as  little  to  do  with  this 
young  fellow  as  possible.  I  never  like  to  hound 
a  man  down  on  an  uncertainty,  and  if  Amy  was 
out  of  the  question  I  wouldn't  care  whether  he 
came  here  or  stayed  away,  for  he's  a  bright 
fellow  and  as  entertaining  as  they  make  em. 
But,  as  matters  stand — well — 

"He  didn't  use  to  be  a  coward,"  said  Henry, 
dwelling  meditatively  on  his  friend's  strange 
war  record. 


74  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"No.  He  was  as  plucky  as  Julius  Caesar 
when  he  was  a  stripling." 

"And  he  doesn't  now  carry  himself  like  a 
man  burdened  with  a  sense  of  shame  or  wrong 
doing." 

"No,"  said  the  Major  again,  "that's  the  most 
confoundedly  puzzling  part  of  it.  But  when  he 
must  know  that  there's  no  end  of  unfavorable 
comment  passing  on  him,  why  don't  he  come 
out  like  a  man  and  explain  himself?" 

"Perhaps  he's  not  ready  to  do  it  yet." 

"Ready!     Yet!" 

"No,  sir;  and  until  he  does,  I,  for  one,  will 
reserve  judgment  on  my  friend,"  said  Henry, 
loyally  and  lovingly. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   VISIT   TO   BRIARWOOD. 

WHEN  a  man  who  has  been  virtually 
drowned  finds  himself  cast  upon  firm 
ground  panting  and  exhausted  from  contention 
with  the  elements  that  have  overwhelmed  him, 
his  first  sensation,  presumably,  is  exclusively 
one  of  absolute  physical  relief,  and  he  quies 
cently  accepts  the  boon  of  life  afresh.  It  is 
only  later  on,  when  restored  vitality  brings 
with  it  renewed  critical  faculty,  that  he  begins 
to  analyze  the  situation  and  to  search  for  the 
underlying  reason  of  the  catastrophe,  without 
which  the  average  man  can  never  rest  content. 
In  some  such  fashion  as  this  the  paroled  sol 
dier  of  the  Southern  army  looked  out  upon 
what  was  to  them  a  badly  battered  world.  In 
the  first  bewilderment  that  followed  upon  the 
close  of  the  war,  their  attitude  was  one  of  ex 
haustion  and  quiescence.  They  had  buffeted 
the  waves  and  been  whelmed  by  them,  and 
when  there  came  an  end  to  fighting  and  to 
marching  and  to  maneuvering  and  to  hoping, 
75 


76  BALDY'S  POINT. 

it  was  more  as  if  they  were  becalmed  than  at 
rest  in  a  peaceful  haven.  Only  for  a  little 
while,  though;  then  they  began  to  question: 
What  should  they  eat  and  wherewithal  should 
they  be  clothed,  these  shipwrecked  mariners  of 
a  lost  cause?  Where  should  they  begin  the 
work  of  rebuilding  their  homes?  On  what 
foundations  should  they  lay  the  new  structure 
of  their  futures?  Had  the  Israelites  of  old  any 
harder  task?  Looking  around  on  his  weed- 
choked  fields,  fenceless  and  fallow;  on  his 
cabins,  given  over  to  a  sort  of  squatter  sover 
eignty,  occupied  by  whomsoever  chose  to  come 
with  a  minimum  of  shabby  furniture  and  a 
maximum  of  mouths  to  feed  and  enter  into 
possession  ;  on  his  barns,  guiltless  of  grainr  and 
his  stables,  of  beasts,  Henry  White  doubt 
ed  it. 

Only  a  few  lethargic  weeks  given  to  physical 
recuperation  and  unprofitable  brooding,  and 
he  bestirred  himself  to  the  extent  of  deciding 
that  something  must  be  done.  What — how- 
were  not  at  all  clear  yet.  He  was  conscious  of 
needing  somebody  stronger  than  his  mother, 
more  impersonal  and  helpful  to  consult  with. 
She  took  such  a  plaintive  view  of  the  situa 
tion,  and  could  see  nothing  but  direct  and  dis 
astrous  bearing  on  her  and  hers.  She  was  not 
the  one  to  show  him  how  to  wrest  good  from 


£ALDY'S  POINT.  77 

evil.  Her  tear-dimmed  vision  could  not  pierce 
the  overhanging  clouds  to  their  possible  silver 
lining.  Fanny?  He  thought  bitterly  of  her 
defection  at  the  moment  of  his  sorest  need. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  depositing  her  at 
her  mother's  door.  He  did  not  care  to  go  to 
Baldy's  Point  to  be  lionized  by  the  women,  or 
criticised  and  questioned  by  the  men  who  were 
gradually  dropping  back  into  the  old  places. 
The  Major?  He  was  grown  too  irascible  to  be 
a  judicious  counselor  for  a  young  man  reso 
lutely  bent  on  adjusting  his  life  to  the  new 
conditions  and  letting  his  dead  bury  its  dead. 
Amy?  She  never  once  presented  herself  in 
this  mental  review  of  possible  advisers  in  so 
stern  an  extremity.  Amy  was  a  good  girl, 
doubtless,  and  had  grown  to  be  wonderfully 
pretty  in  the  last  few  years,  but  what  should 
she  know  of  the  perplexities  and  trials  incident 
upon  making  a  living  for  himself  and  his 
mother,  with  nothing  that  he  could  call  his 
own  but  the  land  (that  lay  in  a  mass  of  tangled 
neglect  about  him)  and  the  tumble-down  cab 
ins  in  the  quarters?  Of  all  the  names  on  this 
small  list  of  his  possible  counselors  in  this  try 
ing  time,  Amy  Wilson's  was  the  least  available. 
There  was  but  one  left — Cap  Van  Dorn ;  and 
as  the  days  went  by,  bringing  no  sign  of  Cap's 
handsome  face  nor  sound  of  his  .cheery  voice, 


7  8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Henry  White's  heart  went  out  to  him  with 
irrepressible  longing. 

"I  expect  he  doesn't  feel  very  welcome 
here,"  said  Mrs.  White.  "I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  he  had  got  hold  of  some  of  my  speeches 
about  him.  I  wasn't  mealy-mouthed  about  his 
staying  at  home  when  all  the  rest  of  the  boys 
were  gone,  and  he  with  not  a  thing  in  the 
world  to  care  for  but  just  his  lone  self.  I 
expect  if  you  want  to  see  him  you  will 
have  to  hunt  him  up.  Not  that  I  can 
imagine  what  you  want  to  see  him  for, 
for  if  ever  a  young  man  did  forfeit  every 
body's  esteem,  that  young  man  is  Cap  Van 
Dorn." 

"I  think  I'll  go  to  see  him  this  afternoon," 
Henry  said  reflectvely,  ignoring  the  innuen 
does  he  had  grown  accustomed  to  by  this  time, 
"and  I  expect  I'd  better  make  an  early  start, 
mother.  It's  a  good  seven  miles.  But  I  can 
walk  it  easily." 

"I  don't  know  what  any  one  would  want  to 
shorten  the  road  to  Briarwood  for;  they'd 
better  block  it  up  entirely,  I  say.  Besides,  it's 
going  to  rain,  Henry." 

His  mother  stretched  her  hand  out  in  hopes 
of  giving  him  ocular  demonstration  that  it  was 
raining. 

"A  passing  shower,  perhaps.     I  don't  think 


BALDY'S  POINT,  79 

as  much  of  a  wetting  as  I  used  to,  mother.     I 
think  I'll  go." 

She  had  learned  to  respect  without  quite 
understanding  that  new  grave  look  in  her  son's 
face.  He  never  used  to  say  what  he  would  or 
would  not  do  so  very  positively.  She  was  not 
as  happy  as  she  felt  she  ought  to  be  in  those 
early  days  of  his  return.  She  did  not  like  his 
absolute  refusal  to  talk  about  Fanny  Ray,  for 
one  thing.  Of  course  it  would  all  blow  over  in 
a  little  while,  but  she  would  like  it  to  blow  over 
immediately.  Fanny  was  such  a  very  desirable 
mate  for  Henry.  And  now  here  he  was,  going 
off  on  a  tramp  through  the  woods,  and  it  \vas 
so  dangerous  in  the  woods  in  case  of  a  storm, 
and  so  many  dead  limbs  on  the  trees,  and  if  it 
was  to  see  any  body  but  Cap  Van  Dorn  she 
shouldn't  so  much  mind.  Formerly,  Mrs.  White 
would  have  given  her  son  the  benefit  of  these 
perturbations,  but  she  did  not  now.  There 
was  something  in  the  look  of  quiet  endurance 
that  sat  so  pathetically  on  his  young  face,  more 
used  to  smiles  and  jests  in  the  olden  time, 
that  abashed  her  and  frequently  caused  her  to 
curtail  her  criticism  on  the  new  order  of  things 
and  of  everybody  but  poor  Cap  Van  Dorn. 
Nevertheless  it  was  with  a  gravely  disapprov 
ing  frown  that  she  watched  him  pass  out  through 
the  front  gate  with  that  firm,  soldierly  tread 


8o  BALDY'S  POINT. 

and  erect  bearing  which  were  the  only  ones  of 
his  new  possessions  she  looked  upon  as  improve 
ments. 

Actually  going  to  see  Cap  Van  Dorn,  whom 
everybody  else  had  felt  compelled  to  drop,  and 
going  on  foot,  and  a  storm  coming  up !  She 
was  quite  sure  it  was  going  to  be  a  violent 
storm,  and  that  it  would  overtake  Henry  in  the 
very  thickest  of  the  woods,  where  the  danger 
from  dead  limbs  would  be  greatest.  (This  was 
Mrs.  White's  way  of  comforting  herself.) 
Furthermore,  Henry  might  get  lost;  of  course 
the  roads  had  changed  some.  But  it  was 
neither  of  the  storm  that  might  come,  nor  the 
possibilty  of  any  evil  betiding  himself,  that 
Henry  was  thinking  as  he  found  himself  once 
more  following  the  narrow  foot-path  through 
the  woods  which  he  and  Cap  had  trodden  to 
gether  so  many  times  with  their  shot-guns  on 
their  shoulders,  only  too  alert  to  cock  and  fire 
them  if  a  woodchuck  did  but  dare  show  its  nose. 

Things  must  be  pretty  bad  at  Briarwood  for 
Cap  to  shun  him  in  this  fashion.  And  he 
couldn't  rid  himself  of  a  desire  to  get  at  the 
bottom  of  it.  If  everybody  was  right  and  Cap 
was  all  wrong,  he  wanted  to  know  it  for  him 
self.  If  Cap  was  right  and  everybody  else  all 
wrong,  he  did  not  intend  to  ignorantly  array 
himself  with  his  friend's  traducers.  It  was  fresh 


BALDY'S  POINT.  8 1 

and  sweet  in  the  woods ;  he  did  not  care  very 
much  about  reaching  Briarwood  before  sunset ; 
he'd  have  the  whole  evening  to  talk  with  Cap, 
for  of  course  he  intended  to  stay  all  night.  He 
had  given  his  mother  warning  not  to  look  for 
him  until  after  breakfast  the  next  morning.  In 
the  days  toward  which  his  thoughts  reverted 
inevitably  on  this  the  first  occasion  of  his  travel 
ing  the  old  path,  whichever  house  had  hap 
pened  to  be  nearest  to  them  at  nightfall  fur 
nished  them  food  and  shelter,  his  own  or 
Briarwood,  and  he  was  going  to  make  Cap 
understand  that  he  was  just  as  welcome  at 
Whitefields  (Henry's  own  home)  as  he  ever 
had  been.  If  his  mother,  good  woman  that  she 
was,  had  been  helping  plant  thorns  in  poor 
Cap's  flesh,  it  was  time  he  was  pulling  some  of 
them  out. 

He  was  too  familiar  with  the  road  to  take  any 
special  heed  to  his  steps.  There  was  neither 
novelty  to  invite,  nor  the  striking  beauty  of  hill 
and  dale  that  insists  upon  tribute  even  from 
the  familiar  eye,  around  him.  Only  long  green 
stretches  of  a  grass-bordered  foot-path  stretch 
ing  through  several  miles  of  unbroken  wood 
land,  where  the  birds  mated,  nested,  and  tried 
new  wings  unmolested  every  year.  The  trees 
crowded  upon  each  other  so  thickly  that  though 
only  the  foliage  of  early  spring  clothed  their 


82  BALDY'S  POINT. 

branches,  the  sunlight  came  through  softened 
and  mellowed.  The  silence  was  broken  occa 
sionally  by  the  sound  of  a  dry  twig  breaking 
under  his  feet,  or  the  scurry  of  a  frightened  pig 
rooting  restlessly  under  the  dead  leaves  of  the 
last  fall  for  a  stray  persimmon  or  acorn.  Once 
in  a  while  he  caught  the  plaintive  note  of  the 
wild  turkey  hen,  and,  with  the  impulse  of  boy 
ish  days,  he  would  call  back  through  his  inter 
locked  ringers,  in  the  cock's  wilder  note  of  invi 
tation,  that  betrayed  no  human  counterfeit. 
How  it  all  carried  him  back,  and  how  every 
step  he  made  toward  Briarwood  strengthened 
his  desire  to  put  things  on  the  old  footing  with 
its  master!  It  gradually  dawned  on  him  that 
he  had  been  walking  quite  long  enough  to  have 
come  in  sight  of  the  Briarwood  gin-stack,  or  at 
least  old  Sandy's  cabin.  Old  Sandy  used  to  be 
the  stock-minder  at  Briarwood,  and  his  cabin 
on  the  outskirts  of  these  woods  was  a  sort  of 
outpost  to  the  plantation.  He  stood  still  to 
take  his  bearings.  There  were  no  special  land 
marks  he  could  recall  besides  those  two,  and, 
turn  which  way  he  would,  he  could  catch  no 
glimpse  of  either  one  of  them.  Thus  brought 
out  of  his  reverie,  he  took  note  of  the  sudden 
hush  that  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the 
world,  and  looked  upward  anxiously  to  where 
he  could  catch  sight  of  the  clouds  blotting  out 


BALDY'S  POINT.  83 

the  bright  blue  sky.  The  leaves  that  had  been 
rustling  musically  over  his  head  now  hung  mo 
tionless  upon  their  stems.  The  birds  ceased 
twittering,  and  -by  the  faint  whir  of  wings  he 
knew  they  were  flitting  from  tree  to  tree  in  an 
ecstasy  of  alarm.  These  woodland  signals  were 
all  familiar  to  him.  After  all,  his  mother's 
lugubrious  prophecy  was  about  to  be  fulfilled 
and  he  overtaken  by  a  thunder-storm  in  these 
shelterless  woods.  He  shouldn't  mind  the 
wetting  so  very  much,  for  he  supposed  Cap 
could  lend  him  some  dry  clothes,  but  he  cer 
tainly  should  like  to  know  where  he  was.  As 
he  grew  more  and  more  bewildered,  he  grew 
excursive,  and  wandered  tentatively  into  every 
little  by-path  that  promised  to  give  him  a 
glimpse  of  the  towering  brick  chimney  to  the 
Briarwood  gin-house.  If  he  could  only  see 
that,  with  its  diamonds  of  black  brick  for  a 
crowning  ornamentation,  he  would  be  all  right. 
He  was  entirely  out  of  the  beaten  path, 
when,  with  a  grand  discharge  of  heaven's  artil 
lery  and  a  sharp,  rattling  volley  of  hailstones, 
the  thunder-storm  burst  upon  him  in  all  its  fury4 
with  the  usual  accompaniments  of  wind  and 
uproar.  He  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  over  his 
breast,  pulled  his  hat  firmly  down  over  his  ears 
to  secure  it  against  the  swirls  of  wind  that 
threatened  to  lift  it  from  his  defenseless  head, 


84  BALDY'S  POINT. 

and,  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
plunged  headlong  and  blindly  forward.  The 
hailstones  fell  with  smiting  power  on  the  ten 
der  foliage  over  his  head,  bringing  it  in  a 
shower  of  green  shreds  earthward  with  them 
selves.  The  slim  saplings  bending  before  the 
power  of  the  storm  swept  his  cheeks  with  their 
cold,  wet  limbs,  the  path  grew  heavy  and 
sodden  under  his  feet,  and  still  no  sign  of  old 
Sandy's  cabin  or  the  gin-stack.  Instead,  with 
an  abruptness  that  almost  made  him  start,  a 
brand-new  fence  impeded  his  progress.  It  was 
a  peculiar  fence,  unlike  anything  that  had  ever 
been  found  necessary  in  that  quiet  neighbor 
hood  before.  It  was  built  of  rude  cypress  slabs, 
over  five  feet  in  height,  and  so  closely  planted 
that  the  fence  virtually  became  a  wooden  wall, 
As  he  approached  this  formidable-looking 
barrier  to  his  progress,  his  surprise  increased. 
Beyond  a  doubt,  that  gray  roof,  with  the  four 
outside  chimneys  clambering  up  its  gable  ends, 
with  its  sloping  sides  pierced  by  the  three  dor 
mer  windows,  that  looked  so  familiar,  was  the 
roof  of  the  Briarwood  house.  There  were 
the  four  cottonwood  trees  that  stood  primly 
in  a  row  just  in  front  of  it,  and  the  mul 
berry  at  ,  the  corner,  whose  shiny  but  for 
bidden  fruit  had  proven  such  a  sore  tempta 
tion  to  Cap  and  to  him  in  their  reckless  days. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  85 

It  was  a  queer  fence  for  Cap  to  have  drawn 
about  the  old  house,  but  he  supposd  it  was 
necessary  for  the  protection  of  his  gardens  and 
henneries  and  other  possessions  against  the 
lawless  new  tenants  of  the  old  cabins.  All 
these  speculations  as  he  cast  his  eyes  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left  of  him  in  search  of  a  gate. 
He  could  tell  from  the  position  of  the  cotton- 
wood  trees  inside  that  he  had  struck  the  rear 
of  the  premises.  The  Briarwood  house  faced 
toward  the  quarters  and  the  big  road.  He 
remembered  old  Mrs.  Van  Dorn  had  located 
her  home  right  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  for 
the  benefit  of  her  stock  and  poultry.  But  a 
gate  seemed  an  impossible  thing  to  find.  He 
supposed  he  must  travel  clear  around  to  the 
road  side,  or  perhaps  even  to  the  front,  before 
finding  one.  He  was  so  thoroughly  drenched 
now  that  it  made  very  little  difference  to  him 
personally  whether  the  rain  fell  or  ceased  to 
fall.  It  ceased  to  fall  with  the  suddenness  that 
had  characterized  its  beginning.  One  or  two 
distant  crashes  of  thunder,  rolling  majestically 
off  to  lose  themselves  in  a  faint  rumble,  a  sob 
bing  of  the  tired  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  then 
with  a  joyous  flash  the  sun  burst  forth  again 
and  spanned  the  old  gray  roof  behind  the  cy 
press  palisades  with  a  glorious  rainbow.  In  one 
spot  two  or  three  of  the  cypress  boards  had 


86  BALDY'S  POINT. 

yielded  to  the  pressure  of  the  storm  and  lay 
prone,  leaving  a  gap  quite  wide  enough  for  him 
to  pass  through.  What  was  the  use  of  standing 
on  ceremony  with  Cap?  He  knew  the  back 
yard  at  Briarwood  as  well  as  at  Whitefields. 
There  was  the  old  smoke-house,  and  the  dairy, 
and  the  hen-house,  but  the  yard  wasn't  quite  so 
populous  with  darkies  as  it  used  to  be.  They 
used  to  be  visible  at  every  turn,  but  now  there 
wasn't  a  living  thing  moving  but  one  or  two 
lean  calves,  just  coming  from  under  the  shelter 
of  the  old  smoke-house  eaves  to  nibble  the  short 
grass  that  looked  so  preternaturally  green  under 
the  rainbowed  sky,  and  a  few  hens  clucking  en 
couragingly  to  the  broods,  whose  clustering  little 
yellow  legs  were  all  that  was  visible  of  them 
from  under  the  sheltering  wings.  It  positively 
began  to  be  awe-inspiring,  this  absence  of  stir  of 
any  sort.  He'd  find  Cap  on  the  front  gallery. 
What  a  lonely  spot  it  was,  to  be  sure !  He 
strode  toward  the  back  steps  rapidly  (his  wet 
clothes  were  beginning  to  feel  rather  chilly), 
but  as  he  reached  the  top  one  he  stopped,  and 
for  once  in  his  life  felt  utterly  unable  to  decide 
whether  he  should  fly  or  stand  his  ground. 

The  doors,  both  front  and  back,  were  wide 
open,  giving  a  full  view  of  the  grand  old  hall, 
furnished  just  as  Henry  had  remembered  it  all 
his  life,  with  the  comfortable  straw  settee  on 


BALDY'S  POINT.  87 

the  side  where  the  steps  climbed  up  to  the 
second  story,  and  with  the  square  table  covered 
with  books  just  opposite  it.  There  was  Cap, 
apparently  sound  asleep,  on  the  settee,  and, 
sitting  close  by  his  head  in  a  low  rocker,  so 
close  that  by  putting  out  her  hand  she  could 
lay  it  on  the  mass  of  curly  brown  hair  that 
clothed  the  sleeper's  head,  sat  a  young  woman 
whom  Henry  was  quite  sure  he  had  never  seen 
before.  An  immense  doll  lay  in  her  lap,  and 
all  around  and  about  the  low,  armless  rocker 
she  sat  in  was  a  litter  of  doll's  wardrobe  and 
other  childish  things.  She  was  engaged  at 
that  moment  in  arranging  the  tow  curls  on  the 
head  of  the  waxen  belle  in  her  arms.  Her 
task  absorbed  her  so  completely  that  Henry 
had  ample  time  to  note  the  slender  grace  of  her 
form,  the  refined  contour  of  her  face,  and  the 
beauty  of  the  hands  that  were  busy  with  the 
doll's  toilet. 

Something  caused  her  to  glance  upward. 
Her  large  blue  eyes  dilated  like  a  startled 
child's,  her  full,  red  lips  parted  to  give  utter 
ance  to  a  moan  such  as  a  frightened  animal 
might  have  made,  she  put  one  hand  upon 
Cap's  sleeve  and  clutched  it  tightly,  without 
once  taking  her  distressed  eyes  off  the  bewil 
dered  man  in  the  doorway. 

Her    touch     roused    the    sleeper.      With   a 


88  BALDY'S  POINT. 

bound  Van  Dorn  rose  to  his  feet  with  an  oath 
on  his  lips.  It  died  away  as  he  recognized 
Henry,  and  an  expression  of  mingled  pain  and 
perplexity  swept  over  his  handsome  face, 
which,  now  that  he  saw  it  for  the  first  time 
in  daylight,  looked  old  and  careworn  to  the 
friend  who  had  forced  an  entrance  for  him 
self. 

He  came  forward  with  a  fair  show  of  hospi 
tality,  and  offered  his  hand  with  a  nervous 
laugh.  The  pressure  it  received  must  have 
given  him  a  mute  assurance  that,  in  spite  of 
everything,  some  one  still  believed  in  him. 

"How  did  you  get  in?"  he  asked,  leading  his 
uninvited  guest  away  from  the  hall  out  to  the 
chairs  on  the  back  gallery,  talking  with  nervous 
garrulity  the  while.  "I've  got  but  one  gate, 
and  the  key  of  that  is  always  in  my  pocket. 
Ah  !  I  see  !" — his  quick  eye  fell  on  the  broken 
slabs  before  Henry  could  explain.  "Well,  per 
haps  it  is  just  as  well  as  it  is.  I've  been  want 
ing  to  talk  the  whole  mess  over  with  you  ever 
since  you  got  back,  but — well" — he  hesitated, 
turned  to  the  hall,  and  said,  in  an  ineffably 
gentle  voice,  "Poor  little  Nellie!" 

But  there  was  no  one  in  the  hall.  The  girl 
with  the  great,  tender  blue  eyes  and  the  huge 
doll  and  all  the  childish  litter  had  disappeared 
as  if  by  magic.  Van  Dorn  turned  to  his  friend, 


BALDY'S  POINT.  89 

and,  laying  both  hands  on  his  shoulders,  said 
in  a  serious  voice  : 

"I'm  glad  it's  happened  so.  I  wasn't  strong 
enough  to  ask  you  to  come,  but  it's  all  for  the 
best.  Yes,  I'm  glad  it's  happened  so." 

But  he  did  not  look  it.  He  motioned  Henry 
toward  one  of  the  big  gallery  chairs,  and,  turn 
ing  away  from  him,  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
gallery,  where  he  played  wild  havoc  with  a 
clambering  cypress  vine,  whose  ambitious  ten 
drils  gave  fleeting  occupation  to  his  nervous 
fingers.  Henry  watched  him  with  affectionate 
concern.  He  was  quite  sure  Cap  was  absolutely 
indifferent  to  the  tendency  of  those  vagrant 
tendrils.  What  was  it  he  found  it  so  hard 
to  unburthen  himself  of? 

"Never  mind  that  vine,  Cap,"  he  said  pres 
ently,  in  a  decided  voice;  "it  can  wait,  and  I 
can't." 

"You're  going  to  stay  all  night?"  Cap  said, 
questioningly,  coming  over  to  him  quickly. 

"I  thought  I  was  when  I  left  home — but — " 

"You  doubt  your  welcome?" 

"Yes." 

"Don't,  old  fellow.  Dear  old  Hank!  stay — 
if  you  can  stand  it." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CONTAINS  AN   EXPLANATION. 

OTAND  what? 

O  He  had  not  asked  the  question ;  had  only 
meant  to  do  so,  when  there  arose  on  the  quiet 
air  a  sound  that  made  him  turn  toward  Van 
Dorn  in  startled  surprise,  only  to  see  him  bury 
his  face,  white  and  drawn  into  lines  of  pain,  in 
his  outstretched  hands,  and  cower,  as  it  were, 
under  that  terrible  sound.  It  was  a  wail,  low, 
long,  plaintive,  increasing  slowly  in  volume 
until  it  reached  a  shriek  of  agony  and  culmi 
nated  in  a  paroxysm  of  the  wildest  moans  and 
sobs.  The  old  house,  with  its  thin  wooden 
partitions  and  loosly  hung  doors,  permitted  the 
soul-sickening  commotion  to  fall  distinctly  on 
the  ears  of  the  two  men  sitting  there  on  the 
gallery,  filling  one  of  them  with  amazed  curi 
osity,  crushing  the  other  one  under  a  sense  of 
his  own  powerlessness  to  assuage.  A  woman's 
voice,  commingling  soothing  words  and  gentle 
tones  with  each  outbreak,  came  out  to  them 
alone.  The  sufferer,  whoever  he  or  she  might 
90 


SALDY'S  POINT.  9! 

be,  was  not  alone  or  friendless.  Van  Dorn 
removed  his  shaking  hands  to  say : 

"You  don't  know  what  it  is,  Henry,  to  go 
through  life  feeling  like  a  murderer!  I  do." 
A  perceptible  shudder  ran  through  his  strong 
frame. 

"Who  is  she?"  Henry  White  asked.  He 
was  too  much  confused  for  comment.  It  was 
an  inconsequent  reply,  but  those  tortured 
shrieks  must  issue  from  the  sweet  red  lips  of 
the  girl  he  had  seen  in  the  hall,  and  the  entire 
situation  was  bewildering  to  him. 

Cap  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  rain- 
soaked  yard  where  the  calves  were  lazily  nib 
bling  the  short  Bermuda  grass.  A  look  of 
stolid  endurance  had  come  into  his  handsome 
young  face.  It  was. as  if  he  had  nerved  him 
self  for  an  ordeal. 

"She's  always  that  way  after  she's  been 
frightened,"  he  said  presently.  "You  startled 
her.  She  never  sees  anybody  but  Mammy  and 
me.  It's  Nellie  Hail.  Poor  little  Nellie!  and 
I'm  more  of  a  murderer  than  if  I'd  killed  her 
outright." 

"Nellie  Hall!"  Henry  repeated  the  name 
reflectively.  Evidently  it  conveyed  no  im 
pression. 

Then  Cap  braced  himself  to  tell  all  there  was 
to  tell  of  the  inexplicable  in  his  life  for  the  past 


92  BALDY'S  POINT. 

few  years,  all  that  had  exercised  the  neighbors 
so  variously  and  left  him  branded  with  the 
stigma  of  cowardice  and  treachery. 

"This  sword  has  been  hanging  over  me  ever 
since  I  was  about  thirteen  years  old,  Hank, 
but  it  is  easy  work  righting  off  trouble  when 
it's  at  a  distance  and  may  never  come  any 
nearer.  I  thought,  maybe,  you'd  remember 
the  name  at  least.  Her  father  overseed  for 
father  only  two  years.  But  now  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  it  was  just  about  that  time  you 
went  to  school  with  the  Ray  boys  out  at 
Baldy's  Point  and  got  so  thick  with  Fanny  Ray 
that  you  didn't  have  eyes  or  ears  either  for 
anything  else.  By  the  way,  I  suppose  there's 
been  no  end  of  Othello  and  Desdemona  pas 
sages  between  you  and  her  since  you  came 
home  a  laureled  hero."  (He  was  consciously 
fencing.) 

"There's  been  no  very  soft  passages,"  Henry 
answered  curtly.  "But  I'm  more  interested  in 
what  you  were  going  to  tell  me  than  in  any 
thing  else  just  now.  ' 

Then  Cap  took  the  plunge  in  dead  earnest 
and  went  on  almost  breathlessly  until  he  had 
reached  the  end. 

"It's  a  pretty  dark  chapter  out  of  my  life, 
Hank,  and  as  long  as  you  can't  possibly  help 
me  I  don't  see  much  use  in  boring  you  with 


BALDY'S  POINT,  93 

it.  If  you  could  have  helped  me,  old  fellow, 
I  wouldn't  have  shunned  you  as  I  have  done 
since  you  came  back  home." 

"Who  knows?  Perhaps  I  can  help  you," 
Henry  said,  leaning  forward  to  rest  his  hand  on 
his  friend's  knee. 

"Thank  you,  Hank;  you've  helped  me 
already,  I  believe.  But  as  for  her" — he 
stopped ;  the  moans  were  growing  slighter  and 
further  apart — "Mammy  has  given  her  her 
opiate — poor  little  girl,  poor  little  Nellie!"  No 
pen  can  describe  the  infinite  pathos  he  laid 
upon  those  words.  "She  ought  to  be  in  some 
good  woman's  keeping,  but — well,  let  me  begin 
over  again. 

"You  don't  remember  father's  overseer,  Hall, 
I  reckon.  He  was  a  gruff  sort  of  fellow,  that 
none  of  us  liked  much.  I  know  I  used  to  won 
der  if  he  didn't  beat  his  wife,  she  had  such  a 
thin,  pinched,  white  face,  and  such  a  scared 
pair  of  eyes.  His  little  girl,  poor  little  Nellie 
in  yonder,  was  all  the  child  they  had,  and  she 
was  such  a  pretty,  gentle  little  thing  that 
mother  used  to  have  her  up  to  the  house  a 
good  deal,  and  made  a  sort  of  pet  of  her.  I 
didn't  see  much  of  her  in  those  days,  for  when 
I  wasn't  at  my  books  I  was — well,  pretty 
much  everywhere  where  there  was  any  mischief 
to  get  into.  Boys  are  brutal  things  by  nature, 


94  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Hank,  don't  you  think?  I  remember  the 
delight  of  my  life  was  to  cut  teeth  and  eyes 
and  a  nose  into  a  big  pumpkin,  hollowed  out 
for  the  purpose,  to  put  a  candle  inside,  wrap  a 
sheet  all  around  me,  and,  with  this  illuminated 
ghoul's  head  held  over  my  own  until  my 
rsacally  little  arms  ached  with  the  weight  of  it, 
invade  the  quarters  at  night  and  scare  all  the 
little  niggers  into  fits.  It  was  prime  fun,  for  it 
never  did  them  any  harm  beyond  a  squawk  or 
two.  But  one  night,  after  a  decidedly  success 
ful  round  as  a  'ghost,'  one  of  the  boys  sug 
gested  I  should  scare  the  overseer's  family,  and 
I  quite  relished  the  idea  of  giving  old  Hall  a 
turn.  I  saw  only  a  moment's  fun  in  it,  you 
know,  miserable  little  fool  that  I  was;  and  so 
I  wrapped  my  sheet  about  me,  after  seeing  to 
the  candle  inside  that  accursed  pumpkin  head, 
and  I  crouched  under  the  overseer's  windows 
to  give  them  a  little  fright.  I  don't  think  I 
thought  of  Nellie  at  all,  or  if  I  did,  I  never  un 
derstood  what  a  delicate,  nervous  little  creature 
she  was.  I  heard  them  all  pushing  their  chairs 
back  from  the  supper-table  and  walking  toward 
the  sitting-room.  I  could  hear  Nellie's  little 
feet  coming  with  a  skip  toward  the  window 
where  I  was  crouching.  She  was  a  happy  little 
thing,  and  the  overseer  and  his  wife  just  adored 
her.  I  rose  suddenly  from  my  crouching 


BALDY'S  POINT.  95 

position.  The  overseer's  house  sat  low  on  the 
ground.  My  shoulders  and  the  hideous  face 
came  just  above  the  window-sill.  I'll  never 
forget  the  shriek  of  terror  that  broke  from  the 
child's  lips!  I've  heard  it  often  enough  since, 
God  knows,  but  that  night  it  curdled  the  blood 
in  my  veins.  I  flung  the  infernal  nonsense 
aside  and  tore  into  the  house  to  try  to  explain 
to  her.  There  was  no  chance  to  do  it.  She 
was  writhing  in  convulsions  in  her  mother's 
arms.  She  was  very  ill  after  it.  There's  no 
use  going  over  the  whole  miserable  business. 
Her  mind  is  a  wreck.  She's  stopped  mentally 
just  where  she  was  then,  at  seven.  The  over 
seer  and  his  wife  hated  me — small  blame  to 
them.  The  mother  was  a  Kentucky  woman. 
She  went  back  home  with  the  child  to  see 
what  change  would  do  for  her.  The  father 
stayed  behind,  swearing  that  if  he  could  he 
would  inflict  some  harm  on  me  yet.  I  didn't 
blame  him.  But  I  didn't  see  very  well  how  he 
could  wring  any  satisfaction  out  of  me  for  the 
ruin  of  his  home.  I  would  have  given  it  vol 
untarily  if  he  could.  Father  insisted  they 
should  let  him  pay  Nellie's  expenses  in  some 
sort  of  institution  for  the  afflicted.  He  got 
curses  only  for  his  offer.  When  I  went  off  to 
college  the  cloud  seemed  to  lift  a  little,  or 

o 

perhaps  it  only  floated  a  little  higher  up  and 


96  BALDY'S  POINT. 

farther  off.  After  Mrs.  Hall  left  for  Kentucky 
with  Nellie,  we  could  never  hear  anything  direct 
about  her.  Hall  stayed  in  the  neighborhood 
only  a  year.  Then  he,  too,  drifted  out  of 
sight,  hating  me  as  fiercely  as  ever.  We  heard 
he  had  gone  to  Kentucky  to  rejoin  his  wife. 
You  know  people  of  that  class  have  an  idea 
that  disgrace  attaches  to  the  mentally  afflicted. 
I  can  only  account  for  Hall's  reserve  about 
this  whole  matter  on  that  score.  As  far  as  I 
can  discover,  he  never  spoke  of  it  to  any  one  in 
the  neighborhood ;  but  then  he  was  surly  and 
secretive  by  nature.  He  was  deep,  too.  You 
remember  how  father  and  mother  went,  within 
a  few  weeks  of  each  other,  just  as  the  war 
broke  out?  Father  was  a  stanch  Union  man. 
He  never  entertained  the  slightest  hope  of 
success  for  the  Confederate  arms.  I  was  tele 
graphed  for  from  college  when  Arkansas  se 
ceded.  I  gave  Yale  up  with  a  groan.  I  found 
things  in  a  sorry  enough  fix  here  at  home. 
Some  fellow  in  New  Orleans  had  gotten  hold  of 
the  mortgages  on  the  place  and  was  putting 
on  the  thumbscrews.  War  times  put  a  stop  to 
all  legal  proceedings ;  but  father  was  worn  out 
with  the  struggle  to  keep  me  at  college  and 
the  place  from  going  to  the  dogs  at  the  same 
time.  He  didn't  live  through  the  first  year. 
It  was  hard  on  me,  Hank,  to  see  all  of  you 


BALDY'S  POINT.  97 

fellows  going  off,  in  your  gray  coats,  to  fight, 
with  all  the  girls  in  tears  over  you,  and  I  left 
behind  like  a  skulking  hound.  Before  father 
died  he  tried  to  make  me  swear  I  wouldn't  so 

o 

into  the  secession  movement.  He  cast  the 
horoscope  of  its  future  pretty  .correctly.  I 
made  him  no  promise  beyond  saying  that 
mother's  comfort  should  be  my  first  care  in  life. 
But  she  followed  him  so  soon  that  there  wasn't 
much  left  to  do  for  her.  It  wasn't  more  than 
a  week  after  I'd  laid  her  to  rest  by  father,  out 
there  in  the  garden,  that  I  got  a  queer  sort  of 
note  from  Louisville.  It  was  signed  with  a  name 
I'd  never  heard,  but  it  read  as  if  it  might  be 
true,  and  I  couldn't  rest  without  trying  to  find 
out  whether  it  was  or  not.  I'll  show  you  the 
note  to-night.  It  told  me  that  Nellie  Hall, 
'whose  mind  I  had  shattered,'  was  in  Kentucky, 
in  a  most  desolate  condition.  Her  mother  was 
dead,  her  father  was  somewhere  in  the  army, 
nobody  knew  where,  and  the  people  Nellie  was 
with  were  tired  of  her  and  treated  her  very  un 
kindly.  I  had  just  been  getting  ready  to  go 
into  the  army.  Not  that  I  was  fired  with  any 
rebellious  zeal,  but  I  hadn't  anything  special  to 
live  for,  and  I  felt  something  like  a  skulk. 
It  was  just  about  that  time  that  a  lot  of  our 
rich  fellows  were  paying  for  substitutes.  I 
couldn't  get  any  money  on  the  strength  of 


98  BALDY'S  POINT. 

cotton,  for  we  couldn't  sell  it,  and  I  didn't  have 
a  cent  in  the  world.  If  it  was  anybody's  place 
to  look  after  Nellie  Hall,  it  was  mine.  Baker 
wanted  a  substitute  just  then.  I  took  his 
money  to  use  for  poor  Nellie.  I  would  get  to 
Kentucky  and  put  her  in  some  asylum  and  pay 
for  her  with  Baker's  money.  I  knew  my  name 
would  ring  in  the  county,  and  it  has.  I  didn't 
have  any  difficulty  finding  her.  The  person 
that  wrote  the  letter  had  given  me  directions 
enough.  But  I  did  have  difficulty  in  finding  an 
asylum.  It  was  war  times,  and  everything  in 
the  wildest  disorder.  They  told  me  she  was 
a  troublesome  inmate  in  any  family.  The 
slightest  agitation  threw  her  into  one  of  those 
terrible  commotions,  such  as  you've  just  heard, 
although  at  other  times  she  was  just  like  a 
sweet,  docile  child  of  seven  years  old.  I  paid 
them  to  keep  her  when  I  was  ordered  off  with 
my  company. 

"I  had  the  devil's  own  luck  in  my  first  en 
gagement,  Hank;  was  taken  prisoner.  Had 
rather  been  shot  outright.  When  they  turned 
me  loose  on  parole  I  traveled  straight  back  to 
Kentucky  to  look  after  poor  Nellie.  Things 
had  gone  from  bad  to  worse.  The  people  had 
used  my  money  and  were  tired  of  her  alto 
gether.  Refused  flatly  to  keep  her  any  longer. 
What  could  I  do?  Money  gone,  that  helpless 


BALDY\S  POLVT.  99 

child  on  my  hands;  really  a  helpless  child,  but 
in  appearance  a  beautiful  young  woman.  I  did 
the  only  thing  I  could  do.  Brought  her  here, 
hunted  up  my  old  Mammy,  told  her  the 
whole  story,  and  thanked  God  for  the  boon  of 
her  great  mellow  heart.  As  soon  as  things  are 
settled  I'll  put  her  into  an  asylum.  It  will  go 
hard  with  the  poor  little  thing,  for  she  is  as 
happy  as  the  day  is  long  with  her  dolls  and 
with  Mammy  and  me.  She  is  fond  of  me, 
Hank;  think  of  it!  Loves  me  as  a  child  of 
seven  years  old  would  love  a  father  who  had 
been  good  to  her  always.  Loves  me — the 
creature  who  wrecked  her  life,  and  if  I  could  I'd 
keep  her  always  near  me !  Poor,  poor  little 
Nellie!" 

He  had  told  the  whole  story  through  bluntly 
and  hurriedly,  and  now  sat  with  his  head  rest 
ing  on  the  tall  back  of  his  chair,  in  utter  mental 
exhaustion. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  mother  about  it?" 
Henry  White  asked,  breaking  the  long  silence 
that  followed  upon  Cap's  hurried  recital. 

A  bitter  laugh  was  all  the  answer  he  got. 
He  hung  his  head  abashed.  Perhaps  Cap  had 
heard  of  his  mother's  harsh  restrictions.  It 
was  Cap's  turn  to  comfort.  He  did  it  in  his  own 
fashion. 

"Don't  think  I'm  finding  fault  with  anybody, 


100  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Hank,  your  mother  least  of  all.  There'd  be 
small  satisfaction  in  it.  I  know  I'm  held  up  to 
scorn  in  every  household,  and  I've  just  got 
mule  enough  in  me  to  make  me  rebel  against 
explaining  my  position  to  everybody.  I've 
sometimes  sat  in  the  gallery  here  alone,  at 
night,  without  even  a  star  to  keep  me  company, 
and  dreamed  a  foolish  dream.  I've  thought  of 
finding  some  good,  sweet,  strong  woman  who 
was  made  just  to  bless  a  home  ;  and  I've  fancied 
myself  loving  her  with  the  sort  of  perfect  love 
that  casts  out  fear  and  enables  a  man  to  bare 
all  his  life  and  his  soul  for  inspection.  And 
I've  thought  of  telling  her  all  about  Nellie, 
after  asking  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  of  hearing 
her  speak  brave,  comforting  words  in  which  she 
has  promised  me  to  help  and  care  for  the  child 
whose  life  I  wrecked.  Ah !  I  could  worship  a 
woman  like  that." 

"If  you  could  find  her,"  said  Henry,  with 
bitter  skepticism  in  his  voice. 

"I  know  a  woman  who  would  do  that,  and 
more  too,  for  the  man  she  loved,"  said  Cap,  in 
a  resonant  voice. 

"Her  name?" 

"Amy  Wilson." 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

BRIARWOOD    UNDER   THE    SUNSHINE. 

IT  was  as  if  Nature  had  repented  her  of  her 
dark  mood  and  was  bent  upon  making  the 
sons  of  men  oblivious  of  her  stormy  outburst, 
she  wore  such  radiant  smiles  the  next  morning; 
and  Briarwood  received  the  full  benefit  of  her 
joyous  rebound. 

At  least  Henry  White  thought  so  as  he  lazily 
opened  his  eyes  and  ears  to  the  outer  world 
once  more.  Through  the  one  organ  he  saw  the 
old  place  regilded ;  great  bars  of  gold  lying 
slantingly  across  the  short  grass  whenever  a 
crevice  occurred  in  the  tall  cypress  fence  or  fell 
in  checkers  through  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
that  bordered  its  eastern  side.  The  ground 
was  purple  with  the  wreck  of  china-bloom  that 
yesterday's  storm  had  beaten  eastward,  and 
the  clambering  jessamine  vine,  which  had  grown 
so  luxuriantly  all  these  neglected  years  as  to 
hide  every  vestige  of  the  clumsy  wooden  trellis 
that  had  supported  it  in  youth,  flung  its  sweet 
yellow  sprays  across  the  window-sill  of  his  bed- 

101 


102  BALDY'S  POINT. 

room  in  refreshed  beauty,  holding  still  in  its 
amber  cups  a  few  glittering  raindrops.  The 
balm  of  a  thousand  flowers  was  afloat  on  the 
fresh  morning  air.  Through  the  other  he 
caught  the  tuneful  rivalry  of  a  mocking-bird 
that  swung  in  joyous  freedom  from  the  top 
most  tendrils  of  the  yellow  jessamine  vine  and 
pitted  its  voice  against  Nellie's  caged  canary, 
that  was  splitting  its  little  throat  with  glad 
thanksgiving  for  the  light  of  the  world.  Above 
the  song  of  the  mocking-bird  and  the  canary 
rang  the  short,  swift  strokes  of  an  ax  almost 
beneath  the  bowed  shutters  of  his  bedroom. 
He  looked  out  to  see  who  it  was  that  Cap 
admitted  for  this  muscular  exercise. 

It  was  Cap  himself,  with  no  coat  or  vest  or 
hat  on,  standing  one  foot  planted  on  the  long 
ash  log,  his  broad  chest  heaving  and  falling 
with  the  swinging  of  his  ax,  whose  shining 
blade  flashed  in  the  sunlight  every  second, 
sending  the  huge  white  ash  chips  scattering  far 
and  wide,  only  to  be  brought  thriftily  together 
again  in  Mammy's  blue  check  apron,  as,  with 
bowed  back  but  patient  industry,  she  followed 
closely  in  the  wake  of  the  glittering  ax. 

"What  a  handsome  fellow  he  is!  He 
oughtn't  to  find  it  hard  to  win  Amy  Wilson," 
Henry  said  to  himself,  standing  there  behind 
the  bowed  window-shutter  with  the  hair-brush 


BALDY'S  POINT.  103 

in  his  hand,  "and  it's  a  pity  she  can't  know  all 
about  him  and  Nellie.  They  say  the  avenue 
to  a  woman's  heart  is  most  direct  through  her 
sympathies.  Provided  always  that  she  has  any." 

At  which  idea  he  laughed  aloud  with  that 
incipient  skepticism  which  disappointed  youth 
sets  down  as  final  and  everlasting.  He  was 
thinking  of  Fanny  Ray. 

"When  did  you  turn  hewer  of  wood?"  he 
asked  later  on,  joining  Cap  out  at  the  wood-pile, 
and  obtained  a  precarious  seat  among  the  piled- 
up  logs  of  wood. 

"About  the  same  time  that  I  began  to  pad 
dle  my  own  canoe,"  Cap  said,  leaving  the  ax 
sticking  in  the  log,  while  he  hunted  for  a  hand 
kerchief  to  dry  the  clinging  rings  of  hair  on 
his  wet  forehead.  "You  see,"  he  continued, 
"Mammy  and  I  do  it  all  inside  the  fence.  We 
don't  want  any  disturbing  elements  about  Nel 
lie,  and  free  niggers  are  a  very  disturbing 
element." 

"I  should  say  so,"  said  Henry,  contempla 
tively  breaking  off  a  splinter  to  chew,  while  he 
pursued  the  subject.  "And  that  brings  us  to 
the  real  object  of  my  intrusion.  I've  got  to 
cope  with  that  very  element,  and  don't  know 
how  to  begin."  "Don't  call  it  intrusion,  old 
boy."  Cap  flung  his  ax  aside — he  was  quite 
sure  Mammy  had  plenty  of  fuel  to  get  break- 


104  SALDY'S  POINT. 

fast  with — and  took  his  seat  beside  Henry  on 
a  wood-pile.  "I  can't  say  how  much  relief  last 
night's  talk  gave  me.  Poor  little  Nellie !  you 
won't  see  or  hear  anything  more  of  her  while 
you  stay.  She  always  sleeps  late  after  Mam 
my's  has  to  give  her  a  sedative.  She's  a  docile 
child  always." 

He  shook  himself,  as  if  by  a  physical  effort 
putting  away  from  him  every  gloomy  reflec 
tion,  and  waved  his  hand  with  a  broad  sweep 
of  his  arms  as  he  said  cheerfully : 

"You  see  the  sun  does  shine,  even  on  Briar- 
wood." 

"And  gloriously,  too,"  said  Henry.  "Such  a 
day  as  this  makes  a  fellow  want  to  start  his 
plows  going,  and  all  that,  you  know." 

"If  he's  fortunate  enough  to  have  any  plow 
to  start,"  said  Cap,  with  a  laugh. 

"Haven't  you?" 

"That's  what  I'm  going  to  find  out  as  soon 
as  Mammy  gives  us  some  breakfast.  You've 
happened  here  on  an  important  day  for  Briar- 
wood.  The  contract  is  to  be  signed." 

"And  what  does  it  amount  to?" 

"Nothing;  absolutely  nothing,  my  dear  boy. 
It  is  an  imposing  ceremony  that  imposes  upon 
no  one,  but  leaves  the  party  of  the  first  part 
and  the  party  of  the  second  part  just  about 
where  it  found  them." 


BALDY'S  POINT.  105 

"The  problem  with  me  is,  how  are  we  to  live 
while  we  are.  getting  things  under  headway- 
mother  and  I.  You  look  pretty  snug  here  be 
hind  your  high  palisades,  but  Whitefields  has 
gone  all  to  pieces.  You  see,  mother's  been  the 
only  white  creature  on  the  place  for  four  years 
now,  and  they've  made  firewood  of  the  fences 
right  before  her  face,  and  killed  the  stock,  and 
played  the  very  deuce  generally." 

"No  worse  than  on  the  places  where  there's 
been  a  man." 

"The  Wilsons  seem  to  get  along  some  way 
or  other,"  Henry  said,  argumentatively. 

"It's  all  owing  to  her."  Cap  rose  suddenly 
from  the  stick  of  wood  he  had  been  resting  on, 
and  reached  for  his  hat  and  vest  that  were 
hanging  on  a  limb  of  a  china  tree  near  at  hand. 
His  face  flushed  suddenly,  and  there  was  a 
bright  light  in  his  eyes.  "It  hurts  me,"  he  said 
"to  see  such  a  heavy  weight  laid  on  a  woman's 
shoulders  and  not  be  able  to  lift  it.  Miss  Amy 
keeps  the  whole  thing  going,  and  the  Major 
don't  even  know  it. — Come,  let's  go  into  the 
garden  and  see  if  there's  any  radishes  big 
enough  to  eat.  I'd  like  you  to  enjoy  the  fruit 
of  my  industry.  I  make  the  garden  myself 
nowadays,  and  Mammy  pays  me  the  highest 
compliment  she  can  by  saying  I  make  as  good 
a  one  as  old  Turner  used  to  make.  You  re- 


106  BALDY'S  POINT. 

member  Uncle  Turner.  He's  pelted  you  and 
me  out  of  his  turnip  patch  many  a  time." 

They  had  reached  the  garden  by  this  time, 
and  Cap  walked  straight  toward  the  radish  bed, 
with  the  directness  of  a  man  with  a  practical 
end  to  attain ;  but  Henry,  carried  backward  on 
the  stream  of  time  by  the  familiar  old  garden 
that  had  been  the  greatest  charm  of  Briarwood 
to  him  in  his  boyish  days,  wandered  away  from 
him  toward  the  fragrant  violet  borders  that  had 
always  barred  off  the  flowers  from  the  veg 
etables.  The  borders  were  there  still,  but 
radical  changes  had  been  made  in  the  ragged 
and  irregular  old  flower-beds.  There  were 
trim,  tiny  little  beds  there  now,  intersected  by 
short  walks,  and  bright  spring  annuals  were 
aflame  in  every  corner. 

"This  is  Nellie's  garden,"  said  Cap,  coming  up 
behind  him,  with  his  hands  full  of  long  crimson 
raidshes,  to  which  the  rich  soil  clung  in  brown 
flakes.  "She  spends  some  of  her  happiest  hours 
out  here.  She  likes  to  work  in  it  herself,  and 
she  fancies  she  is  the  sole  author  of  this  bright 
ness  and  bloom.  Her  pride  in  it  is  real  pretty 
to  see.  Mammy  and  I  never  let  her  see  us 
tending  it.  She  spends  the  most  of  her  time 
indoors  with  her  dolls.  It  was  fortunate  for 
her  that  mother  had  locked  away  all  of  sister 
Annie's  toys  and  dolls  when  she  died.  I  don't 


BALDY'S  POINT.  107 

know  what  Nellie  would  have  done  without 
those  dolls.  Come  in  to  breakfast;  I  see 
Mammy  waving  for  us.  We  never  ring  a  bell 
here;  Nellie  can't  endure  the  sound  of  one." 

He  led  the  way  out  of  the  garden.  He  had 
grown  tall  and  stalwart — so  tall  that  he  had  to 
bend  his  head  to  pass  under  the  old  cedar  trees 
that  grew  by  the  garden  gate.  There  was  some 
thing  infinite  touching  to  Henry  in  Cap  Van 
Dorn's  atonement.  His  strength  was  made 
subservient  to  Nellie's  weakness,  his  rational 
desires  yielded  to  her  most  irrational  whims. 
In  her  helplessness  she  was  strong,  and  in  her 
feebleness  she  ruled  him  with  autocratic 
severity.  "It's  all  I  can  do  for  her,"  he  said 
very  frequently.  It  was  a  pathetic  household 
that  Briarwood  sheltered  in  those  days:  a  young 
man,  with  all  the  impatient  longings  and  puls 
ing  ambitions  of  his  years  ripe  within  him, 
bending  uncomplainingly  beneath  the  burden 
of  a  joyless  seclusion,  not  even  allowing  himself 
to  reflect  upon  the  possibilities  of  his  life  if  he 
could  but  order  it  for  his  own  interest ;  a  young 
girl  happily  unconscious  that  she  was  a  burden 
to  the  friend  whom  she  adored  with  the  trusting 
affection  of  the  childish  years  that  were  to  be 
hers  for  all  her  earthly  pilgrimage;  and  a 
faithful  old  negress  hovering  above  them  both 
with  maternal  tenderness  and  sleepless  vigilance. 


Jo8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

They  stopped  at  the  cistern  between  the 
house  and  the  garden,  and  Cap  held  the 
radishes  under  the  spout  while  Henry  pumped 
the  water  over  them. 

"It  takes  me  back  to  old  times,"  said  Van 
Dorn,  looking  up  with  his  bright  smile,  "to  see 
you  at  the  pump-handle,  Hank;  but  these  are 
honester  radishes  than  the  ones  we  used  to 
steal  from  Uncle  Turner." 

"I  doubt,"  said  Henry,  dropping  the  pump- 
handle  to  help  twist  off  the  green  tops  of  the 
rosy  radishes,  "if  anything  will  ever  again  have 
the  relish  that  all  things  had  in  those  days." 

"You're  getting  hungry,"  Cap  said.  "I  know 
it  by  the  tenor  of  your  remarks.  I  always  take 
my  most  melancholy  views  of  life  on  an  empty 
stomach.  The  future  is  a  blank  to  the  unfed." 

Mammy  had  celebrated  the  unusual  occur 
rence  of  company  to  breakfast  by  a  grand  cu 
linary  display,  and  the  sun  was  a  good  deal 
higher  overhead  before  the  two  men  passed  out 
through  the  gate  in  the  tall  fence,  whose  key 
Cap  withdrew  from  the  lock,  and  turned  their 
steps  toward  the  quarters,  where  all  the  new 
hands  and  Cap  were  to  come  to  some  sort  of 
an  agreement  touching  the  year's  crop. 

"You  see,  I've  got  as  much  to  boast  of  as  you 
have  in  the  way  of  wreckage,"  said  Cap  lightly, 
as  they  passed  through  the  fenceless  fields,  by 


BALDY'S  POINT,  109 

the  blackened  heaps  of  the  gin-house  that  had 
been  burned  by  orders  of  the  military,  up 
through  the  quarter  lot  where  cabins  without 
front  steps,  cabins  with  no  chimneys,  and 
cabins  in  every  conceivable  stage  of  degeneracy 
swarmed  with  a  motley  crowd  of  strange  ten 
ants,  who  had  come  from  no  one  knew  whither, 
with  no  definite  object  in  life  but  to  get  close 
to  some  white  man  who  would  feed  them  for 
the  possibility  of  a  return  in  labor. 

"How  are  you  off  for  teams,"  Cap  asked, 
with  neighborly  interest,  the  question  doubtless 
being  suggested  by  the  disreputable  appearance 
of  a  blue-bodied  wagon,  guiltless  of  one  hind 
wheel,  that  impeded  their  progress  just  then. 

"Three  mules  and  one  dumping-cart,"  Henry 
answered,  curtly. 

"Which  is  vastly  better  than  three  carts  and 
no  mules.  That's  my  fix.  That's  the  reason 
I'll  have  to  make  easy  terms  with  these  fellows. 
The  most  of  them  have  mules.  Stolen, 
doubtless,  but  one  can't  afford  to  inquire  into 
the  antecedents  of  every  mule  that  feeds  at  his 
corn-crib  these  days.  Who  are  your  mer 
chants?"  was  the  next  question  in  his  cate 
chism. 

"Haven't  any  yet,  but  I  suppose  there'll  be 
no  difficulty  on  that  score." 

"None  whatever.     It's  simply    a   matter  of 


HO  SALDY'S  POINT. 

self-preservation  with  the  commission  mer 
chants.  They  can't  exist  without  our  cotton, 
and  we  can't  make  cotton  without  their  assist 
ance.  They'll  advance  you  all  you  need  to  run 
the  place :  pork  and  meal  and  corn." 

"And  what  is  mother  to  exist  on?  I  can't 
feed  her  on  corn  as  I  would  the  work-mules." 

"I  know  of  one  way  to  make  a  little  ready 
money,"  said  Cap  reflectively,  "and  not  such 
a  bad  way  either,  if  you'll  pocket  your  pride." 

"I  haven't  any  to  pocket.  I'd  turn  stoker  if 
anybody  would  employ  me." 

"I  don't  think  they  would,"  said  Cap,  dis- 
couragingly,  slowly  passing  his  hand  along 
Henry's  arm.  "You  haven't  got  the  muscle. 
I  would  like  to  have  taken  hold  of  this  thing 
myself,  but  I  couldn't  leave  Nellie.  It's  rather 
confining." 

"What  is  it?     Don't  be  afraid." 

"It's  keeping  the  toll-gate  on  the  plank  road. 
It's  close  to  you  there.  The  plank  road  is  a 
good  source  of  revenue  to  its  projectors,  and 
I  know  they're  on  the  lookout  for  an  honest 
man.  But  then  Miss  Ray  might  object.  The 
position  is  not  one  of  aristocratic  exclusive- 
ness,  you  know." 

This  was  not  his  first  attempt  to  bring  the 
conversation  around  to  Fanny  Ray.  He  was 
at  a  loss  to  understand  Henry's  dumbness  on 


BALDY'S  POINT.  ill 

the  subject.  Why  should  they  not  talk  about 
Fanny?  He  very  seldom  went  out  to  Baldy's 
Point  of  late,  unless  urgent  business  compelled, 
and  when  he  did  no  one  volunteered  to  post 
him  in  local  gossip.  He  was  under  a  cloud 
wherever  he  went,  and  was  fully  aware  of  it. 
Henry's  reply,  which  came  quite  deliberately, 
left  him  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 

"I'll  risk  disapproval.  What  does  it  pay? 
It's  worth  looking  into." 

"I  think  so  myself" — they  had  reached  the 
dark  crowd  about  the  overseer's  house  gallery 
by  this  time — "and  if  you'll  wait  until  I've 
expended  all  my  wisdom  on  these  enlight 
ened  sons  of  labor  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know 
about  it." 

Henry  waited,  locating  himself  a  little  apart 
from  the  master  of  Briarwood,  who,  with  the 
verbose  and  confusing  contract,  over  which  he 
had  expended  so  much  brain  effort,  spread  out 
on  the  table  before  him,  applied  himself  to  the 
stupendous  task  of  evolving  order  from  chaos. 

Stupendous,  indeed,  where  the  contracting 
parties  represented  on  the  one  side  a  mass  of 
dense  ignorance,  distrust,  inexperience,  and 
thriftlessness ;  on  the  other,  inexperience,  youth, 
and  bewilderment.  Cap  read  through  the  long 
series  of  agreements  on  the  part  of  the  parties 
of  the  first  part  (who  were  numerous  and  stolid) 


H2  BALDY'S  POINT. 

and  the  party  of  the  second  part,  in  a  slow,  clear 
voice,  carefully  eliminating  all  the  large  words 
as  he  proceeded.  The  parties  of  the  first  part 
knitted  their  dark  brows  sagely  and  exchanged 
wise  glances  of  caution  with  each  other.  They 
were  free  now,  and  they  owed  it  to  themselves 
to  see  that  no  white  man  got  the  better  of  them 
just  because  he  could  "figger"  and  they  could 
not.  The  parties  of  the  first  part  outnumbered 
the  party  of  the  second  part  forty  to  one,  so 
the  balance  of  wisdom  must  be  on  their  side. 
There  were  women  there,  with  babies  in  their 
arms  and  tired  little  toddlers  clinging  to  their 
ragged  skirts,  who  were  "going  to  have  their 
own  say"  in  this  matter.  There  were  quiet, 
age-bowed  men  there,  to  whom  freedom  had 
come  to  late  to  possess  any  stirring  power. 
They  missed  the  fostering  care  that  had 
sheltered  them  all  through  life,  and  the  old  eyes 
that  were  fastened  on  the  young  face  of  the 
contractor  were  full  of  wistful  inquiry  con 
cerning  the  future.  There  were  youths  there 
to  whom  the  few  years  since  emancipation 
meant  all  of  life,  and  who  found  it  difficult 
yet  to  discriminate  between  liberty  and  license. 
There  was  strength  and  feebleness,  docility  and 
ferocity,  good-natured  acceptance  and  dark  dis 
trust,  all  elbowing  each  other  about  the  small 
table  where,  erect  and  outwardly  composed,  the 


BALDY'S  POINT.  113 

young  master  of  Briarwood  faced  them,  with 
the  depressing  inner  consciousness  that  upon 
this  turbulent,  restless,  untrustworthy  mob 
he  must  depend  for  his  subsistence  weighing 
heavily  upon  him. 

He  finished  reading  the  contract  amid  a  dis 
tinct  buzz  of  discontent. 

The  murmur  was  taken  up,  and  swelled  into 
a  loud  protest.  Perhaps  only  a  small  propor 
tion  of  them  knew  the  original  cause  of  dis 
satisfaction.  It  was  conveyed  to  them  by  one 
of  the  younger  men  who  faced  angrily  toward 
the  crowd  about  the  gallery. 

"Van  Dorn's  contrac'  promises  to  give  us 
one  third  uv  all  de  cott'n  we  makes,  folks.  Mr. 
Dempsy  Bass,  jus'  back  yhere  two  miles,  he 
promises  his  folks  one-fo'th.  Them  that  likes 
the  figger  three  better'n  they  does  the  figger 
fo'  kin  stay  whar  they's  a  mind  to.  Es  fur  me 
en  my  squad,  we'll  try  the  one-fo'th  man. 
Come  on,  Lindy." 

He  shouldered  his  way  violently  through  the 
crowd,  calling  to  his  own  immediate  family  to 
follow.  They  all  needed  a  leader  of  some  sort ; 
must  have  one,  indeed.  They  were  a  lot  of 
blind  children  groping  their  way  along  an  un 
tried  road. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  Van  Dorn  and  his 
guest  were  entirely  alone  on  the  gallery.  The 


l»4  BALDY'S  POINT. 

unsigned  contract  lay  on  the  table  between 
them.  They  looked  at  each  other  disgustedly. 
Then  the  ludicrousness  of  the  situation  came 
uppermost,  and  they  laughed  boisterously. 

"What  will  they  do  now?"  Henry  asked, 
turning  his  gaze  in  the  direction  of  the  retreat 
ing  crowd.  They  were  more  of  a  novelty  to 
him  than  to  •  Cap.  "Will  they  go  to  Mr. 
Dempsy  Bass's?" 

"Perhaps  so,  perhaps  not,"  said  Cap,  folding 
up  the  rejected  contract ;  "more  likely  they 
will  sit  down  again  in  my  quarters  for  another 
week  to  talk  about  it,  while  I  feed  them,  until 
they  make  up  their  minds,  or  think  they  have 
made  them  up.  Let  it  go  for  tc-day.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  that  toll-gate  business." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  PROVOST  MARSHAL'S  REIGN. 

BALDY'S  POINT  was  in  a  state  of  violent 
commotion.  In  point  of  fact,  that  was 
coming  to  be  the  normal  condition  of  what 
was,  usually,  an  abnormally  serene  locality. 
So  many  unprecedented  things  were  happening 
within  its  sleepy  purlieus,  mostly  things  of 
such  an  unpleasant  description  as  to  cause  Mrs. 
Judge  Baker  to  say:  "It  really  did  seem  as  if 
the  war  had  just  begun  instead  of  having  just 
ended."  Which  was  virtually  true  so  far  as 
the  non-combatants  of  Baldy's  Point  were  con 
cerned. 

There  was  the  Provost  Marshal,  to  begin 
with.  He  was  decidedly  the  most  unpleasant 
thing  that  had  happened  for  a  long  time,  and  a 
thing  altogether  without  a  precedent. 

When  it  first  became  known  that  a  Provost 
Marshal  was  established  at  the  Mimms  House, 
people  looked  at  each  other  stupidly  and  asked 
"what  he  was  there  for."  Some  were  even  so 
very  ignorant  as  to  inquire  what  a  Provost 
Marshal  was.  The  more  knowing  ones  defined 
"5 


Il6  BALDY'S  POINT. 

him  so  glibly  as  to  arouse  suspicion  of  recent 
consultation  with  the  dictionary.  These  de 
clared  that  a  provost  was  a  sort  of  inferior 
judge  who  took  cognizance  of  civil  causes. 
The  linguist  of  Baldy's  Point  declared  the  word 
to  be  of  French  origin,  and  was  really  quite 
fluent  in  the  matter  of  roots  and  derivations, 
but  his  erudition  went  for  naught.  Nobody 
seemed  to  care  anything  about  the  origin  of 
the  word.  It  was  the  man  who  wore  it  as  a 
sort  of  insignia  of  office  that  excited  their  live 
liest  interest.  The  combination  of  the  words 
provost  and  marshal  had  a  military  ring  about 
it,  and  the  people  of  Baldy's  Point  were  sick 
nigh  unto  death  of  the  very  name  of  military 
anything.  There  had  been  a  tremendous  revul 
sion  of  feeling  since  the  time,  just  a  little  over 
four  years  before,  when  they  had  sent  their 
military  forth  with  a  great  fanfare  of  trumpets 
and  a  superb  recklessness  in  the  matter  of  flow 
ers  and  predictions.  The  result  had  been  dis 
appointing. 

What  the  real  official  duties  of  the  Provost 
Marshal  who  was  stationed  at  Baldy's  Point 
might  have  been  closely  and  clearly  defined  to 
be  will  never  be  known.  Perhaps  he  was 
meant  for  a  beneficent  institution  during  those 
chaotic  days  when  there  was  neither  judge  nor 
jury  qualified  to  act  intelligently  in  the  small- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  117 

cst  matter  of  dispute,  and  at  a  time  when 
hordes  of  newly  emancipated  slaves  were  tent 
atively  trying  to  discover  for  themselves  the 
full  meaning  and  scope  of  the  large  liberty 
that  had  suddenly  been  intrusted  to  their  igno 
rant  keeping. 

What  his  duties  practically  proved  to  be 
would  have  worn  Atlas  himself  to  a  skeleton, 
but  the  people  of  Baldy's  Point  had  no  sym 
pathy  to  spare  for  the  man  who  was  to  all 
intents  and  purposes  "put  over  them."  Hap 
pily  for  himself  and  the  country,  the  Provost 
Marshal  proved  to  be  an  ephemeral  expedient. 

The  one  under  which  Baldy's  Point  groaned 
temporarily  did  not  suggest  the  ephemera 
personally.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  the  very 
solidest  and  most  permanent  appearance  phys 
ically.  "Not  bad  looking,"  was  the  reluctant 
verdict  of  the  men  who  gathered  in  diminished 
numbers  on  Sellers's  gallery  those  days.  The 
new  official  was  compelled  to  walk  three  or 
four  times  a  day  by  this  inquisitorial  as  he  went 
to  and  from  the  Mimms  House  to  his  office  in 
the  Court-house. 

Decidedly  not  bad  looking.  On  the  contrary, 
handsome;  with  a  striking  military  carriage 
and  a  well-set  head,  and  a  pair  of  keen  gray 
eyes  that  rested  placidly  on  the  group  of  men 
on  the  gallery  as  he  passed  them,  ready  to 


1 1 8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

accept  any  token  of  civility  that  might  unex 
pectedly  be  accorded  him,  but  not  at  all  press 
ing  his  claims  in  that  direction. 

But  they  were  sore  and  moody,  these  men, 
smarting  under  defeat,  and,  beyond  the  scant 
courtesy  of  a  bow,  were  not  inclined  toward 
conciliation.  He  represented  the  power  under 
whose  triumphant  hand  they  lay  vanquished 
and  helpless. 

It  was  before  him,  the  Government's  ac 
credited  representative,  that  every  man  of 
them  who  would  be  reinstated  to  his  rights  of 
citizenship  must  appear  as  a  suppliant  and 
ask  pardon  for  the  deeds  done  in  the  spirit  of 
rebellion  in  the  years  just  gone  by. 

New  ideas  must  have  to  grow  before  their 
intrinsic  value  becomes  perceptible  (in  which 
respect  they  somewhat  resemble  new  potatoes), 
and  the  idea  that  they  had  all  been  plunging 
blindly  toward  an  abyss  from  which  Providence 
had  hurled  them  backward,  bruised,  bleeding, 
exhausted,  but  saved,  had  not  yet  even  sprouted 
in  the  brains  of  the  men  of  Baldy's  Point. 

That  the  Provost  Marshal  had  a  name  which 
was  his  own,  and  not  government  property, 
everybody  knew,  for  the  post-office  was  kept  on 
one  counter  in  Sellers's  store,  in  the  notion 
department.  It  consisted  of  a  box  full  of  pig 
eon-holes,  open  in  front  and  behind,  so  that 


BALDY'S  POINT.  119 

every  man  might  help  himself  to  his  own  mail 
without  "bothering"  Sellers  or  his  one  clerk  to 
leave  off  the  drawing  of  a  quart  of  molasses  or 
the  measuring  of  a  dress  pattern  of  calico.  No 
one,  of  course,  ever  saw  or  cared  to  see  the  con 
tents  of  any  pigeon-hole  but  his  own,  but  every 
one  knew  that  the  Provost's  name  was  Wesley 
Ford,  and  that  he  received  a  lot  of  letters 
by  every  mail.  But  this  private  name  was 
practically  useless  to  its  possessor  for  the  time 
being.  He  had  no  social  existence  for  Baldy's 
Point. 

Another  one  of  the  disagreeable  things  over 
which  Baldy's  Point  was  in  a  state  of  ferment 
ation  was  the  remarkable  stand  Henry  White 
had  taken.  It  was  "possible  for  people  to  be 
genteel,  even  if  they  were  wrecked  all  to 
pieces" ;  and  yet  there  he  was,  turned  toll-gate 
keeper,  actually  sitting  in  a  little,  miserable 
sentry  box,  a  sort  of  rain  shelter  merely,  and 
taking  the  toll  from  every  passer-by  with  as 
stolid  a  face  as  if  he  had  been  born  and  reared 
in  that  coop  he  spent  the  day  in !  Mrs.  White 
was  "perfectly  wretched"  about  it.  And  it  was 
said  he  actually  took  his  dinner  with  him  in  a 
tin  pail,  like  any  common  laborer.  Mrs.  White 
said  he  had  gotten  some  nonsense  in  his  head 
about  paying  as  he  went,  and  he  was  going  to 
get  the  commission  merchants  to  supply  his 


120  BALDY'S  POINT. 

hands  but  not  himself.  What  a  perfectly 
absurd  position  for  a  young  man  who  had  been 
brought  up  as  Henry  White  had ! 

Some  people  said  it  was  moroseness,  that 
the  breaking  off  of  his  engagement  with  Fanny 
Ray  had  something  to  do  with  it.  But  that 
theory  did  not  hold  good  in  face  of  the  man  at 
the  toll-gate;  he  did  not  look  morose,  only 
quietly  determined  to  do  without  flinching 
what  he  had  undertaken  to  do.  He  had  a  lot 
of  books  in  the  shanty,  and  writing  material, 
and  as  he  was  almost  within  sight  of  the  front 
gate  at  Whitefields,  it  was  no  great  undertak 
ing,  the  coming  down  or  the  going  back.  But 
Mrs.  Judge  Baker's  voice  was  against  the  whole 
proceeding,  and  consequently  all  Baldy's  Point 
decried  it.  It  had  a  leveling  tendency,  and 
anything  that  tended  toward  obliteration  of 
the  old  social  lines  was  to  be  discouraged. 
Henry  White's  unreasonable  conduct,  and  the 
daily  doings  and  sayings  of  the  Provost,  were 
about  as  much  as  Baldy's  Point  could  cope  with 
at  one  time.  At  least,  that  was  the  general  im 
pression  until,  one  day,  it  was  surprised  into 
the  knowledge  of  its  own  greater  capacity  for 
excitement. 

The  Provost,  it  was  reported,  had  called  at 
Judge  Ray's,  asked  for  Miss  Ray,  and  been 
received ! 


BALDY'S  POINT.  121 

There  was  absolutely  nothing  now  left  for 
Fanny  Ray  to  do  to  insure  the  uncorking  of  all 
the  vials  of  wrath  and  the  emptying  of  their 
contents  upon  her  reckless  head.  What  were 
Judge  and  Mrs.  Ray  thinking  of  to  permit 
such  a  thing?  Hadn't  Fanny  done  enough  al 
ready,  in  that  matter  of  cruel  treatment  of 
Henry  White,  to  disenchant  all  her  old  friends? 
Why  should  she  fly  in  the  face  of  the  com 
munity  in  this  manner?  Mrs.  Baker  voiced  the 
whole  neighborhood  in  querulous  inquiry. 
Disenchant  was  the  word.  The  Judge's 
daughter  had  been  a  sort  of  local  queen  before 
these  troublous  times;  so  daintily  pretty,  so 
saucily  self-assertive,  so  winsome  in  her  affec 
tionate  out-going  to  all  her  friends.  But  she 
had  changed  a  good  deal  in  the  months  that 
had  come  and  gone  since  her  cruel  reception  of 
her  unrecognized  lover,  and  only  when  she 
mounted  her  spirited  little  mare  for  a  lovely 
little  canter  through  the  woods  was  she  seen 
away  from  home  of  late  or  did  she  seem  at  all 
like  the  old  Fanny.  She  had  grown  to  be  very 
cold  and  distant  and  indifferent  to  everybody, 
which  made  it  all  the  more  incomprehensible 
why  the  Provost  Marshal  should  have  felt 
warranted  in  calling  at  the  Judge's  home  and 
asking  to  see  Miss  Ray  alone.  There  was  no 
getting  around  the  fact  he  had  done  so,  for  the 


122  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Rays'  Mollie,  who  opened  the  door  to  him  and 
carried  the  message  to  Miss  Fanny,  passed  by 
Mrs.  Baker's  five  minutes  later  on  her  way  to 
Sellers's  store  to  get  a  pound  of  bicarbonate  of 
soda,  and  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Baker's  Phemy, 
who  was  leaning  over  the  front  gate  with  the 
front  door  mat  in  her  hand,  which  she  was 
going  to  beat  against  the  gate-post  after  a 
while.  Mrs.  Baker  shook  her  head  solemnly 
when  Phemy  told  her  about  it  a  trifle  triumph 
antly,  and  secretly  hoped  that  Mrs.  Ray  would 
be  able  to  explain  it  away.  It  was  that  same 
afternoon  that  Mrs.  Baker  found  she  had  en 
tirely  forgotten  the  new  stitch  in  double  cro 
chet  that  Mrs.  Ray  had  taught  her,  and  she 
went  over  to  take  another  lesson  from  her. 
Everything  looked  as  quiet  as  usual  at  the 
Judge's.  The  Rays'  was  one  of  the  few  homes 
at  Baldy's  Point  that  had  not  a  decidedly  war- 
scarred  aspect.  Mrs.  Ray  was  out  on  the  back 
gallery,  superintending  the  building  of  a  feed 
coop  for  her  young  chickens.  The  Judge  was 
there,  too,  with  his  spectacles  pushed  far  up  on 
his  bald  forehead ;  apparently  he  was  superin 
tending  Mrs.  Ray  and  the  builder  of  the  coop. 
Fanny  she  had  seen  as  she  passed  by  the  parlor 
door,  sitting  at  the  piano  with  a  long  trail  of 
pink  muslin  lying  all  round  the  piano  stool. 
How  slim  and  white  her  neck  looked  coming 


HALDY'S  POINT.  123 

up  from  its  pink  frills !  She  made  Mrs.  Baker 
think  of  an  azalea,  there  was  something  so 
purely  transparent  about  her  cheeks  and  her 
extremely  pretty  ears,  behind  which  her  hair  was 
pushed  with  utter  indifference  to  effect.  Noth 
ing  coarse  or  sordid  had  ever  forced  itself  upon 
the  Judge's  daughter  for  consideration,  and  if 
the  two  doting  old  people  out  on  the  gallery 
there  could  help  it,  it  never  should.  She  was  all 
that  was  left  them  out  of  a  large  family  of  chil 
dren,  and  hence  was  the  recipient  of  much 
injudicious  indulgence.  Mrs.  Baker  found  out 
a  good  deal  during  that  visit.  She  found  out 
how  to  make  that  double  stitch  in  crochet.  She 
found  out  the  very  best  way  to  make  a  chicken 
coop  so  that  the  young  chickens  could  partake 
of  their  rations  unmolested  by  voracious 
feathered  adults;  she  found  out  that  the  hands 
on  Henry  White's  place  were  in  a  state  of  ab 
solute  mutiny,  because  he  would  not  include 
whisky  among  his  supplies ;  she  found  out  that 
Amy  Wilson  had  actually  turned  dressmaker 
for  the  people  on  the  Wilson  place,  and  was 
wearing  herself  out  rising  early  in  the  morning 
and  sewing  late  at  night,  to  keep  the  Major 
from  finding  out  what  she  was  about.  She 
found  out  that  Cap  Sutton  had  the  best  pros 
pect  of  anybody  in  the  county  for  a  full  work 
ing  force,  since  he  had  changed  his  contract 


124  BALDY'S  POINT. 

from  one-third  to  one-fourth  of  the  crop  (which 
had  occasioned  much  triumph  in  his  quarters); 
she  found  out,  in  short,  a  little  about  every 
one  of  her  neigbors,  and  rejoiced  or  regretted 
as  the  character  of  the  information  demanded ; 
but  what  she  did  not  find  out  was  why  the 
Provost  Marshal  had  called  on  Fanny  Ray  and 
why  Fanny  Ray  had  received  him  instead  of 
the  Judge,  who  evidently  had  been  about  the 
house  all  day,  for  here  he  was  late  in  the  after 
noon  still  in  his  house  slippers,  and  his  neck 
was  guiltless  of  a  cravat.  She  stepped  into  the 
parlor  on  her  way  back  toward  the  front  gate 
after  an  hour's  stay.  Fanny  got  up  respectfully 
and  inquired  solicitously  after  the  dear  old 
lady's  health,  looking  at  her  very  sweetly  with 
those  great  innocent  eyes  of  hers.  But  Mrs. 
Baker  left  the  house  feeling  baffled. 

The  entire  Ray  family  escorted  her  hos 
pitably  to  the  front  steps;  the  Judge  in  his 
slippers,  that  slapped  the  floor  noisily  at  every 
footfall,  Mrs.  Ray  with  her  hand  full  of  ten- 
penny  nails  that  she  had  gathered  up  thriftily 
to  put  back  in  the  tool-chest,  and  Fanny  in  her 
trailing  pink  organdy,  that  was  a  trifle  out  of 
date,  but  immensely  becoming  to  her  delicate 
style  of  beauty. 

"Poor  old  lady!"  Fanny  said,  with  a  low 
laugh,  as  the  gate  closed  on  Mrs.  Baker.  "I 


BALDY'S  POINT.  125 

hate  to  inflict  unnecessary  suffering,  but  she 
couldn't  be  trusted." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Ray,  in  fervent 
acquiescence;  "it  would  never  have  done  in 
the  world." 

"As  it  is,"  said  Fanny  indifferently,  "all 
Baldy's  Point  will  share  her  pangs  before 
night." 

The  Rays'  house  overlooked  the  Court 
house  Square,  so  that  every  movement  of  any 
importance  that  agitated  the  little  town  was 
apt  to  fall  directly  under  their  supervision.  As 
they  stood  there  they  saw  a  saddled  horse  led 
across  the  square  by  the  boy  who  acted  as 
hostler  at  the  Mimms  House  on  the  rare  occa 
sions  when  there  was  need  for  such  a  func 
tionary.  He  hitched  it  to  a  ring  in  a  tree 
just  outside  the  Court-house  yard,  and  left  it 
there. 

"I  do  believe  he  is  a  man  of  his  word,"  said 
Fanny,  surprisedly.  An  interested  look  had 
come  into  her  languid  eyes  at  sight  of  the 
horse  and  man,  and  now  she  stood  there  watch 
ing  for  the  sequel.  She  turned  away  v/ith  a 
satisfied  air  when,  after  a  little  while,  the  Pro 
vost  came  out  from  his  office,  and,  mounting, 
rode  away  at  a  brisk  gait. 

"He  rides  well,"  said  the  Judge,  bringing  his 
glasses  into  position  to  look  after  the  young 


126  SALDY'S  POINT. 

man ;  "and  I  suppose  it  was  necessary.  But 
deuce  take  me  if  I  don't  wish  it  could  have 
been  managed  otherwise.  It's  a  bitter  pill. 
It  looks  like  surrendering  twice  over." 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Fanny,  standing  before 
him  and  smoothing  the  wrinkles  out  of  his 
forehead  with  two  little  slim  fingers,  "and  that 
was  the  reason  I  would  not  let  you  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it.  I  told  him,  truthfully, 
that  you  knew  nothing  of  my  intention ;  and 
I  told  him,  also,  that  he  must  name  his  price." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  the  Judge  asked 
quickly. 

"Looked  black  and  turned  red,"  Fanny  said, 
with  her  slow,  lazy  laugh,  "and  said  he  would 
name  his  price  when  he  had  earned  it,  and  I'm 
quite  sure  he  will." 

"Look  here,  Fanny" — the  Judge  laid  his 
heavy  hands  on  her  shoulders — "let  there  be 
no  mistake  on  that  fellow's  part,  nor  on  yours 
either.  If  he  thinks  that  because  you've  found 
it  necessary  to  make  use  of  him  you  are  going 
to  open  this  house  to  him  as  a  visitor,  he's 
mistaken,  that's  all.  He's  a  handsome  dog, 
but—" 

"And  you  are  a  very  fooHsh  papa,"  said 
Fanny,  dropping  her  arms  from  his  neck  lan 
guidly  and  turning  away  from  him  with  a 
frown. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  127 

"Don't  cross  her,  Judge,"  said  Mrs.  Ray  im 
ploringly;  "it  don't  take  anything  these  days 
to  give  her  a  turn.  She  looks  like  wax 
now." 

And  the  Judge  meekly  promised  to  be  very 
circumspect. 


CHAPTER  X. 
THE  PROVOST'S  ERRAND, 

WHEN  the  Provost  Marshal  rode  out  of 
town  that  morning,  followed  by  a  good 
many  curious  glances  and  wondering  conject 
ures,  it  was  not  of  the  girl  standing  there  on 
the  Judge's  gallery  that  he  was  thinking,  or,  at 
least,  if  it  was,  it  was  only  for  a  very  little 
while.  He  took  note  of  her  presence  there, 
cuddled  close  up  to  her  father's  side,  and  said 
to  himself  that  she  looked  like  some  delicate 
wild-flower  growing  close  up  to  the  roots  of  a 
gnarly  old  oak,  the  physical  contrast  between 
the  two  was  so  great,  and  he  smiled  slightly  to 
think  that  she  should  be  watching  him  to  see 
if  he  did  what  he  had  promised  her  to  do. 

''You  haven't  much  confidence  in  me  yet,  lit 
tle  girl,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  as  the  bridle 
path  brought  him  close  enough  to  necessitate 
the  lifting  of  his  hat  to  the  Rays,  "but  I  bide 
my  time." 

It  occurred  to  him  that  Miss  Ray  had  shown 
considerable  independence  in  doing  what  she 
had  done  that  morning,  and  he  honored  her  for 
128 


BALDY'S  POINT,  129 

it.  The  more  he  analyzed  it  the  more  dis 
tinctly  difficult  to  do  it  appeared  to  him.  He 
thought  he  knew  of  only  one  other  woman 
who  could  have  done  an  awkward  thing  with  so 
much  grace. 

When  he  did  stop  to  think  of  it  he  saw  her 
coming  swiftly  toward  him  where  he  sat  stiffly 
enough  in  the  parlor  of  her  quaint  old  home, 
amid  the  materialized  fancies  and  traditions  of 
several  generations  of  Rays.  He  was  glad  to 
think  the  accumulated  treasures  of  that  stuffy 
old  room  had  escaped  'harm.  If  he  had  not 
been  there  simply  on  sufferance,  he  would  have 
liked  to  inquire  into  the  history  of  some  of  the 
curious  things  that  crowded  the  tables  and  the 
etageres  and  the  broad,  low  mantel-shelf.  But 
Miss  Ray  had  come  quite  promptly,  and  had 
looked  at  him  inquisitorially  for  a  second  with 
pure  searching  eyes,  as  if  she  wanted  to  decide 
for  herself  what  manner  of  man  he  might  be, 
and  then,  with  singular  straightforwardness, 
but  not  without  a  tremor  in  her  girlish  voice, 
had  told  him  why  she  had  sent  for  him ;  had 
told  him  how  she  had  a  very  dear  old  lady  friend, 
who  was  a  widow,  and  whose  only  son  had  very 
foolishly  leased  his  place  out  to  the  hands,  and 
had  gone  to  keeping  a  toll-gate  ;  and  how  some 
body  had  told  her  that  her  dear  old  lady  friend 
was  in  great  distress  because  of  certain  threats 


13°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

she  had  heard  made  against  her  son,  at  which 
he  only  laughed ;  and  of  how  she,  Fanny  Ray, 
having  heard  that  he,  the  Provost,  could  do 
just  what  he  pleased  with  the  freedmen,  had 
sent  to  request  him  to  use  his  influence  with 
the  people  out  at  Whitefields.  How  prettily 
she  had  flushed,  as,  twisting  her  handkerchief 
into  a  rope,  she  had  gone  on  nervously :  "Of 
course  you  understand,  Mr.  Provost,  that  I 
am  doing  this  entirely  unsolicited.  No  one, 
not  even  papa,  knows  that  I  wrote  a  note  ask 
ing  you  to  come  over  here.  But — but  Mrs. 
White's  son  is  such  an  exceedingly  obstinate 
young  man  that  he  would  let  them  kill  him 
before  he  would  yield  a  point,  and — and — that 
would  be  so  very  sad  for  poor  Mrs.  White,  you 
know." 

"To  have  her  son  killed,  you  mean?"  This 
with  a  grave  smile. 

"Y"es,"  said  Fanny,  giving  one  more  nervous 
twist  to  her  tortured  handkerchief,  as  she  vailed 
her  pleading  eyes  under  down-dropped  lids. 

"Quite  so.  But  I  don't  imagine  things  are 
that  bad,"  he  had  said,  and  had  informed  her 
that  his  practice  was  to  receive  formal  com 
plaints  from  employer  or  employed  at  his  office. 

"But  Hen — Mrs.  White  will  never  com 
plain.  And  I — I  want  to  engage  you  to  go 
out  there." 


BALDY'S  POINT.  131 

"You  mean,"  he  had  said,  "looking  black  and 
turning  red,"  as  she  had  truthfully  reported, 
"that  you  wish  to  pay  me  to  go  out  to  your 
friend's  plantation  as  a  sort  of  regulator." 

"Yes,  just  exactly,"  she  had  said,  very 
eagerly,  evidently  pleased  with  his  ready  grasp 
of  her  idea,  and  he  had  told  her  stiffly  he  would 
name  his  price  later  on,  and  had  terminated 
the  interview  somewhat  abruptly.  And  here 
he  was  actually  going  on  the  errand  she  had 
sent  him  about.  It  occurred  to  him  that  these 
Southern  women  had  a  rather  cool  way  of 
ordering  men  to  do  their  bidding,  and  he  was 
to  a  degree  surprised  at  his  own  docility.  But 
he  said,  searching  for  an  excuse  for  himself, 
this  widow's  case  does  sound  rather  forlorn. 
He  was  too  entirely  outside  the  social  circle  of 
life  at  Baldy's  Point  to  have  ever  heard  the 
story  of  Fanny  Ray  and  Henry  White.  If  the 
owner  of  this  Whitefields  place  was  a  woman, 
and  alone,  perhaps  his  merely  riding  through 
the  quarters  and  speaking  a  few  quieting  words 
to  the  malcontents  might  mend  matters  for  her. 
It  was  worth  "a  trial. 

"For  Ann's  sake,'"  it  occurred  to  him,  he 
would  like  very  much  to  make  a  friend  of  the 
Judge's  daughter.  "Ann"  was  the  Provost's 
wife,  and  he  was  very  much  in  love  with  her. 
Too  much  in  love  with  her  to  subject  her  to 


I32  BALDY'S  POINT. 

pain  when  it  could  possibly  be  avoided.  And 
then,  in  his  vision  of  fair  women,  the  Provost 
turned  from  the  review  of  his  visit  to  Fanny 
Ray  to  welcome  a  demure  little  image  that 
was  seldom  out  of  his  thoughts.  "She's  as 
plucky  as  Julius  Caesar,"  he  said  to  himself,  not 
thinking  of  Fanny  Ray,  "but  this  sort  of  thing 
would  break  her  down  in  a  month."  He  did 
not  specify  what  this  sort  of  thing  might  mean. 
Fanny  Ray's  good  will,  once  he  should  have 
earned  it,  opened  up  a  possible  avenue  of  hap 
piness.  The  Rays  occupied  a  social  eminence 
that  no  one  had  ever  disputed.  Whoever  they 
indorsed,  the  people  of  Baldy's  Point  accepted 
without  question.  And  the  Provost  Marshal 
was  inwardly  resolved  that  they  should  indorse 
his  wife.  That  was  the  price  he  was  going  to 
put  on  his  extra  services  in  behalf  of  that 
lonely  old  lady  out  at  Whitefields  whose  case 
excited  Miss  Ray's  sympathy  so  warmly.  The 
Provost  was  young,  and  this,  their  first  separa 
tion,  was  hard  on  Ann  as  well  as  himself,  and, 
as  his  fancy  traveled  much  faster  than  the 
hired  nag  that  paced  dejectedly  through  the 
wooded  road  between  Baldy's  Point  and 
Whitefields,  he  had  selected  a  building  spot 
and  erected  a  pretty  Queen  Anne  cottage  on  it, 
and  trained  a  Lamarque  rose  all  over  its  front 
porch  (he  loved  these  rich,  luxuriant  climbing 


BALDY'S  POINT.  133 

roses ;  Ann  had  never  seen  anything  like  them 
up  there  in  Vermont),  furnished  his  home  from 
parlor  to  kitchen,  and  eaten  several  satisfactory 
meals  in  its  pretty  little  dining-room  (which 
was  to  overlook  a  bed  of  tuberoses  and  glad 
ioli),  with  Ann  sitting  opposite  him  in  a  white 
dress  with  Southern  roses  in  her  belt  (it  was 
always  blossoming  time  in  the  Provost's  fancy), 
long  before  he  reached  that  portion  of  the 
plank  road  where  were  the  gate  and  the  shanty 
in  which  Henry  White  had  elected  to  begin  his 
career  as  a  bread-winner.  The  dull  thud  of  his 
horse's  lazy  hoof-beats  upon  the  plank  road 
had  formed  a  sort  of  accompaniment  to  this 
pleasant  reverie.  The  horse  knew  the  road  so 
very  much  better  than  he  did  that  his  hold 
upon  the  bridle  had  been  merely  nominal. 
The  animal's  sudden  stoppage  was  meant 
merely  to  inform  his  rider  that  they  had 
reached  the  toll-gate  and  common  honesty  de 
manded  a  halt,  but  it  shattered  the  Provost's 
reverie  and  sent  his  vision  of  Ann  and  the 
Lamarque  roses  and  the  pretty  dining-room 
spinning,  bringing  him  back  with  a  jerk  to  the 
errand  Fanny  Ray  had  sent  him  on.  He 
looked  up  and  drew  a  long  inspiration  of  aston 
ishment.  Coming  toward  him  from  his  seat  by 
the  little  table,  which  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
plank  knocked  up  against  the  side  of  a  venerable 


134  BALDY'S  POINT. 

spreading  sycamore  tree,  was  a  young  man  who 
certainly  did  not  suggest  the  typical  toll-gate 
keeper.  The  Provost's  surprise  was  so  extreme 
he  would  really  have  liked  to  whistle.  He 
wondered  if  Miss  Ray  hadn't  made  a  serious 
mistake  in  supposing  that  this  broad-shouldered 
fellow,  with  his  clear,  fearless  eyes  and  square, 
resolute  under-jaw,  was  not  quite  equal  to 
taking  care  of  himself,  his  plantation,  and  his 
mother  too,  without  any  outside  interference. 
But  the  girl  had  said  his  life  was  threatened, 
and  he  only  laughed  at  the  threats.  He  re 
called  the  intense  look  of  anxiety  in  her  eye 
as  she  had  told  him  that.  Her  interest  in  the 
old  lady  out  at  Whitefields  had  suddenly  be 
come  altogether  explicable.  It  certainly  would 
be  a  pity  for  this  fine-looking  young  fellow  to 
come  to  grief  for  want  of  a  friendly  warning. 
But  would  he  take  that  friendly  warning  from 
him?  That  remained  to  be  seen. 

"Mr.  White,  I  believe,"  he  said,  feeling  in 
his  vest-pocket  for  the  toll,  which  Henry  stol 
idly  pocketed  with  a  curt — 

"That  is  my  name." 

The  Provost  dismounted.  There  was  no  use 
waiting  for  an  invitation,  even  if  the  keeper 
could  have  divined  his  intention.  He  felt 
dubious  about  riding  on  through  the  gate  and 
over  the  Whitefields  place  without  previous 


UALDY'S  POINT.  135 

parley  with  its  owner.  What  he  had  meant 
for  a  kindness  to  an  old  lady  might  be  mistaken 
for  an  impertinence  by  a  young  man.  He  had 
a  mistake  lodged  in  his  brain  about  this  toll- 
gate  keeper,  and  had  concluded  he  was  either  a 
lazy  drone  who  preferred  this  sluggish  sitting 
at  receipt  of  custom  to  the  most  arduous  duties 
of  the  plantation,  or  else  he  was  a  man  broken  in 
health  by  the  war  and  unfit  for  anything  more 
active.  Whether  or  not  Fanny  Ray  was  re 
sponsible  for  this  error  he  could  not  decide. 

The  Provost  was  not  a  timorous  man,  and, 
having  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  the  thing 
to  do  to  talk  plainly  to  the  master  of  White- 
fields,  he  went  at  it  boldly  enough,  helping 
himself  to  a  seat  on  the  cypress  block  by 
Henry's  table  under  the  sycamore.  There  was 
a  great  litter  of  cypress  splinters  all  around  the 
sycamore  tree,  and  a  small  pile  of  clumsily  made 
shingles  near  them.  A  glittering  draw-knife 
rested  on  the  cleft  of  another  block  of  cypress 
close  by  the  one  on  which  he  had  seated  him 
self.  He  glanced  swiftly  from  the  draw-knife 
to  Henry  White's  hands.  It  was  pathetic. 
But  he  admired  him  all  the  more  for  it. 

"I  hope  you  won't  look  upon  me  as  an  inter- 
meddler,  Mr.  White,"  he  began,  somewhat 
hurriedly,  "but  the  truth  is,  I  was  about  to  take 
a  ride  over  your  place." 


I36  JBALDY'S  POINT. 

"It's  not  much  to  look  at,"  said  Henry, 
flushing  hotly  but  keeping  his  voice  well  under 
control,  "but  doubtless  you'd  find  a  good  many 
there  to  welcome  you."  This  with  cool  sar 
casm. 

It  was  the  Provost's  turn  to  grow  red,  but  he 
was  not  easily  turned  from  a  purpose  once 
formed. 

"You  won't  mind  my  saying  that  I've  heard 
there's  a  good  deal  of  dissatisfaction  on  your 
place,  and  I'd  like  to  help  mend  matters  if 
you'll  permit  me." 

"I  suppose  there's  plenty  of  dissatisfaction  on 
every  place,"  Henry  answered  bluntly,  stooping 
over  to  pick  up  one  of  his  rough  shingles  to 
use  his  pocket-knife  on.  "I'm  only  on  the  place 
at  night  and  very  early  in  the  morning,  but  I 
didn't  know  things  had  come  to  such  a  pitch  as 
to  demand  your  intervention." 

"It  scarcely  amounts  to  intervention,"  said 
the  Provost,  equably;  "I  only  aimed  at  preven 
tion." 

"Prevention  of  what?"  Henry  pushed  his 
broad-brimmed  straw  hat  far  back  on  his  head 
and  fixed  his  eyes  coldly  on  the  Provost. 

"Prevention  of  harm  to  you.  You  are  not 
unaware  of  threats — 

"No.  I  am  not  unaware  of  them.  What 
then?" 


BALDY'S  POINT,  137 

Wesley  Ford  leaned  forward  earnestly :  "I 
implore  you  not  to  rebuff  me.  Whether  it  is 
right  or  wrong  that  I  should  have  gained  such 
an  influence  over  these  ignorant  creatures,  you 
know  that  I  have  it.  I  will  serve  you,  if  you 
will  let  me." 

"The  best  service  you  can  render  the  neigh 
borhood  will  be  to  run  some  of  these  fellows 
out  of  the  country.  They  are  fire-brands.  As 
for  the  rest,  I'm  quite  capable  of  managing  my 
own  place,  thank  you." 

"Would  you  mind  giving  me  the  names  of  the 
men  you  consider  at  the  bottom  of  these  local 
disturbances?" 

"Not  at  all.     Henry  Robinson — 

"Wait  a  moment,  please."  The  Provost  felt 
in  his  pocket  for  his  memorandum  book,  only 
to  find  it  was  not  there,  fumbled  for  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  finally  found  he  was  reduced  to  using 
the  blank  page  of  a  letter  which  he  drew  from 
its  envelope,  laying  the  latter  on  the  little  table 
by  his  hat.  "Henry  Robinson,"  he  repeated, 
using  his  pencil  rapidly. 

"Daniel  Forman,"  said  Henry,  briskly. 

"Daniel  Forman  down." 

"And  Peter  Johnson.  They  are  the  three 
men  who  are  perpetually  inciting  the  rest  to  re 
volt,  and  who  have  given  expression  to  a  lot  of 
rubbish.  If  I  were  to  attend  to  all  the  stuff 


I38  BALDY'S  POINT. 

I  hear  from  the  quarters,  I'd  have  no  time  to 
attend  to  anything  else." 

(A  strong  puff  of  wind  sent  the  Provost's 
hat  spinning  on  the  table  and  swept  the 
envelope  out  of  sight  among  the  litter  of 
the  cypress  splinters  and  shingles  at  his 
feet.  He  put  the  hat  on  his  head  for 
security,  but  gave  no  thought  to  the  empty 
envelope.) 

"And  you've  no  objection  whatever  to  my 
visiting  your  quarters?" 

"It's  a  matter  of  no  moment  whatever,"  said 
Henry  icily,  "only  you  are  not  to  permit  them 
to  think  you  come  as  a  mediator  between  me 
and  them.  I've  taken  a  stand  that  I  mean  to 
maintain  if  the  stars  fall." 

The  Provost  put  his  written  list  back  into 
his  pocket.  He  had  no  desire  to  argue  this 
young  man  out  of  any  of  his  convictions.  He 
was  a  long  way  from  Baldy's  Point  and  the 
day  was  dying  fast.  It  was  gloomy  enough 
out  there  by  the  toll-gate  after  the  sun  set.  In 
fact,  long  before  its  last  rays  faded  from  the 
tallest  tree-tops  the  shrill  cry  of  the  cicadas 
filled  the  air,  and  the  loud  drone  of  the  insects 
smote  on  the  stillness,  and  myriad  black-winged 
bats  came  out  of  the  hollows  of  the  trees  and 
circled  close  overhead,  searching  for  their  sup 
pers  in  mid-air.  The  Provost  shivered  slightly 


BALDY'S  POINT.  139 

as  he  stood  up  to  go,  and  buttoned  his  coat 
across  his  chest. 

"Don't  you  find  it  deucedly  dismal  here  all 
day?" 

"It's  not  especially  cheerful,"  said  Henry,  in 
a  tone  that  discouraged  further  discussion  of 
his  private  affairs.  And  then  the  Provost 
turned  toward  his  horse,  who  had  bitten  off  all 
the  sassafras  shoots  within  his  reach,  and  was 
now  eying  him  in  a  mildly  disapproving  way. 

"It  is  so  late  that  I  think  I  shall  Wait  until 
to-morrow,"  he  said,  as  he  sprang  into  the  saddle. 

"As  you  please,"  Henry  answered  indiffer 
ently,  and  turned  toward  his  shanty  to  gather 
up  the  dinner-pail  and  the  books  which  came 
with  him  and  went  with  him  to  and  from  the 
house  every  day.  The  gleam  of  something 
white  on  the  ground  near  where  the  Provost 
had  been  sitting  caught  his  eye  as  he  came  out 
again  from  the  shelter.  He  stooped  to  pick  it 
up.  It  was  the  empty  envelope.  There  was 
something  strangely  familiar  in  the  formation 
of  the  letters  in  that  superscription.  He 
looked  at  it  fixedly.  Once  upon  a  time  that 
handwriting  had  been  very  familiar  indeed. 
He  might  possibly  be  mistaken ;  so  many 
women  wrote  just  alike.  It  was  a  hand-deliv 
ered  letter;  there  was  no  stamp  on  it.  He 
turned  the  envelope  over.  He  thought  he 


14°  SALDY'S  POINT. 

knew  beforehand  what  he  should  find  on  the 
flap.  The  letters  F.  M.  R.  were  inextricably 
entangled  on  it ;  not  inextricably  to  him,  how 
ever.  Each  letter  stared  him  in  the  face  in 
cruel  confirmation  of  the  fact  that  Fanny  Ray 
had  found  occasion  to  communicate  by  letter 
with  the  Provost  Marshal,  whom  all  her  old 
friends  held  in  such  base  disesteem. 

He  sat  there  for  a  long  time  staring  at  the 
envelope  that  told  so  much  that  it  was  a  pity  it 
could  not  have  told  more.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  dull  sort  of  surprise  at  himself.  He 
thought  he  had  gotten  entirely  over  his  fancy 
for  this  girl,  who  had  flinched  from  his  side 
when  he  needed  her  the  most.  He  didn't  be 
lieve  he  would  have  cared  a  rush  if  any  of  the 
other  boys  had  won  her  brittle  affections;  but 
this — this  was  too  much.  He  sat  there  ponder 
ing  over  the  bitterness  of  it  until  the  cicadas 
wearied  of  their  shrill  calling  to  each  other,  and 
the  flutter  of  bats'  \vings  grew  louder  and 
closer,  and  the  distant  lowing  of  the  cows 
grew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  occasional 
hoot  of  an  owl  mingled  with  the  other  voices 
of  the  night,  and  the  stars  came  out  overhead, 
and  the  day  was  dead. 

Then  he  got  up  and  turned  his  face  toward 
the  house  reluctantly.  He  wished  he  could 
sit  there  till  he  felt  stronger.  "But  mother 


SALDY'S  POINT.  14* 

will  be  worrying,"  he  muttered,  peevishly.  He 
felt  so  old  and  tired  to-night,  so  inexpressibly 
weary  of  everything.  What  was  he  struggling 
for,  anyhow? 

As  he  passed  out  of  sight  beyond  the  toll- 
gate,  a  man  came  from  around  the  corner  of 
the  shanty  and  followed  slowly  in  the  same 
path.  He  was  a  powerful  negro;  so  dark  of 
hue  and  carelessly  outlined  in  his  shabby 
clothes  that  he  was  but  indistinctly  defined 
against  the  gloomy  background  of  the  trees. 

His  ax  was  slung  over  his  shoulder,  and  on 
its  helve  swung  the  tin  dinner-pail  that  he  had 
taken  with  him  that  morning  when  he  went  to 
his  rail-splitting.  His  head  was  swaying  angrily 
from  side  to  side,  and  occasionally  his  powerful 
fist  was  raised  and  shaken  in  the  diretion  of  the 
receding  form. 

"So  mine  was  the  fust  name.  Henry  Robin 
son  heads  the  list,  do  he,  boss?  Well,  w'en  dey 
runs  me  off 'n  dis  place  it  will  be  fur  somethin' ; 
en  you  won*  git  much  satisfacshun  out'n  it." 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  an  owl,  overhearing, 
answered  him  with  a  shrill  screech  of  diabolical 
mirth. 


>> 

CHAPTER  XL 

HENRY   MAKES  AN   ENEMY. 

THE  hours  which  Henry  White  spent  in  the 
shanty  by  the  toll-gate  were  by  no  means 
his  most  unhappy  ones.  There  was  an  element 
of  peace  and  quietness  in  his  life  there  which 
entered  into  it  nowhere  else,  and  which  was  a 
veritable  balm  of  healing  to  the  inward  soreness 
that  plagued  him  yet.  Strictly  speaking,  his 
days  were  spent  at  the  shanty,  not  in  it.  It 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  place  of  refuge  for 
him  and  his  books  when  it  rained. 

The  great  sycamore  tree  that  spread  its 
branches  over  an  immense  area,  sheltering  the 
shanty  as  it  sheltered  everything  else  that 
came  within  its  radius,  sheltered  him  also,  and 
under  its  outstretched  arms  he  worked  and  read 
and  projected  and — remembered.  Worked, 
with  stubborn  revolution  and  awkward  zeal,  at 
the  tough  cypress  blocks  out  of  which  the  pile 
of  clumsy  shingles  was  so  slowly  evolved.  He 
had  a  boundless  contempt  for  those  shingles  of 
his  own  making.  They  were  to  re-roof  the 
old  house  with,  and  he  rather  dreaded  the 
142 


BALDY'S  POINT.  143 

moment  when  they  should  come  for  the  first 
time  under  his  mother's  critical  observation. 
"She's  so  used  to  the  old  ways,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  excusing  her  while  he  eyed  an  especially 
uneven  shingle  with  a.  scowl  of  disapproval, 
"that  she  can't  seem  to  make  allowance."  But 
the  old  roof  leaked  badly,  and  after  these 
shingles,  which  he  was  making  with  his  own 
red  and  blistered  hands,  were  actually  nailed 
on,  he  supposed  the  result  would  be  as  satis 
factory  as  if  they  had  been  turned  out  by  ex 
perts.  Read,  with  divided  attention  and  wan 
dering  mind,  the  books  that  had  been  his  de 
light  and  refreshment  in  the  old  times,  but  over 
whose  classic  pages  now  there  was  thrown  the 
dark  tissue  of  each  day's  bewildering  condition 
for  his  mental  distraction.  Projected  idle 
plans  for  the  future,  which  were  principally 
noticeable  for  their  lack  of  firm  foundation  and 
as  proofs  of  youth's  incurable  propensity  to  try 
to  bend  fate  to  its  will.  Remembered — well, 
principally  he  rememberd  his  defeat  in  love  and 
war.  But,  as  he  pertinaciously  refused  to  look 
backward,  it  was  only  at  occasional  periods  of 
spiritual  lassitude  that  Memory,  getting  the 
better  of  Resolution  temporarily,  used  the  lash 
mercilessly. 

Against  the  huge  trunk  of  the  sycamore,  with 
its   blotch   of  white   and  brown   bark,  he   had 


144  BALDY'S  POINT. 

nailed  the  semicircular  boards  that  served  him 
as  dinner-table,  writing-desk,  and  tool-chest. 
Through  the  green  canopy  of  broad  leaves  he 
could  look  up  to  the  deep  blue  sky  and  soar 
above  the  clumsy  shingles  and  the  wearisome 
plantation  accounts  and  all  things  mean  and 
small  for  a  second  at  a  time,  which  was  clear 
gain.  In  its  branches  the  birds  of  the  air  rested 
and  twittered  and  caroled,  and  had  come  to 
look  upon  him  as  such  an  innocuous  specimen 
of  humanity  that  they  consented  affably  to  par 
take  of  his  luncheon,  even  contending  with 
really  human  acrimony  over  the  crumbs  that 
fell  from  his  table.  In  return  for  this  casual 
refreshment  they  sang  for  him.  And  to  the 
man  so  lately  come  from  the  din  of  artillery 
and  the  rattle  of  musketry  and  the  shock  of 
arms,  the  sweet,  inconsequent,  fragmentary 
notes  that  sifted  from  myriad  bird-throats 
down  through  the  interlacing  leaves  of  the  syc 
amore  were  inexpressibly  pleasing.  The  birds 
were  never  disappointing,  he  said  to  himself. 
Yes,  it  was  very  pleasant  down  there  at  the 
shanty,  and  he  was  never  especially  glad  when 
the  sun  dropped  low  enough  to  send  golden 
shafts  of  light  slanting  through  its  lowest 
branches  to  illumine  the  rough  exterior  of  the 
shanty,  and  the  violet-tinted  vistas  of  the  woods 
turned  to  black,  and  mystical  shapes  and 


BALDY'S  POINT.  145 

shadows  danced  therein.  He  could  not  feel 
especially  glad,  for  then  he  must  go  back  to  the 
home  and  hear  from  his  mother  every  little  de 
tail  that  had  annoyed  her  throughout  the  day. 
And  there  was  always  a  great  deal  to  annoy 
her  these  days,  and  she  was  unsparing  of  detail. 
He  thought  he  had  done  the  very  best  he 
could  when  he  leased  the  place  out  to  the 
hands  and  "turned  in"  to  make  personal  ex 
penses  at  the  toll-gate.  But  she  differed  with 
him.  Mrs.  White  differed  with  almost  every 
body  in  those  bewildering  days.  She  differed 
with  fate  primarily,  and  all  the  rest  followed 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

The  keeping  of  the  toll-gate  only  lasted  from 
sun  to  sun.  Travel  to  and  from  Baldy's  Point 
was  not  so  brisk  but  that  the  gate  could  be 
locked  at  nightfall  and  opened  again  at  sunrise. 
The  plank-road  was  an  institution  that  had 
been  necessitated  by  the  impossibility  of  land 
ing  cotton  over  the  impassable  swamp  roads. 
It  was  principally  used  for  teams  and  vehicles, 
and  no  teams  or  vehicles  were  apt  to  want  to 
traverse  the  impenetrable  woods  in  which  it  ter 
minated  six  miles  beyond  Whitefields  without 
the  light  of  the  sun  to  guide  them.  This 
being  the  case,  Henry  White  had  a  few  hours 
of  every  day  and  evening  to  devote  to  the 
affairs  of  the  plantation. 


146  BALDY'S  POINT. 

His  mother  was  untiring  in  her  vigilant  es 
pionage  of  the  "new  people"  in  the  cabins, 
between  whom  and  herself  there  was  no  bond 
save  that  of  self-interest.  Henry  sometimes 
wondered  if  she  did  not  expend  all  her  energy 
in  garnering  up  complaints  against  them.  On' 
this  special  evening  he  almost  prayed  that  he 
might  find  things  quiet  up  at  the  house.  He 
did  not  feel  sure  of  himself.  That  envelope,  ad 
dressed  to  the  Provost  Marshal  in  Fanny  Ray's 
handwriting,  was  lying  in  his  inside  coat  pocket 
over  his  heart.  He  marveled  at  the  tumult  in 
his  blood  which  it  had  excited. 

"Anybody  but  her!"  he  said  over  and  over 
again,  as  he  strode  toward  the  house.  "An 
accursed  interloper — our  enemy — she's  insulted 
the  whole  community  by  having  anything  to 
do  with  him." 

He  was  quite  sure  he  was  no  longer  in  love 
with  her  himself.  Oh,  no!  If  there  was  any 
thing  he  was  sure  of,  it  was  that.  He 
walked  very  slowly  toward  the  house ;  he 
knew  of  no  special  reason  why  he  should  hurry 
home.  Things  had  improved  somewhat  at 
Whitefields  since  that  day  when  he  had  stag 
gered  up  the  broken  brick-walk,  unrecognizable 
in  his  tatters,  toward  where  his  mother  and 
Fanny  Ray  sat  watching  him.  He  had  himself 
patched  up  the  fence  and  cut  down  the  weeds 


BALDY'S  POINT.  147 

and  replaced  the  broken  bricks  with  whole 
ones,  followed  about  by  his  mother  uttering 
little  ejaculations  of  despair  and  plaintive  pro 
tests  against  the  evil  days  she  had  lived  to  see. 
He  had  improved  a  good  deal  himself,  in  many 
ways.  But  they  were  all  new  ways. 

Mrs.  White  herself  could  never  be  brought 
to  admit  that  anything  at  all  was  improved  at 
Whitefields. 

"We  are  going  from  bad  to  worse,  son, 
every  day,"  was  the  melancholy  formula  with 
which  she  generally  wet-blanketed  any  cheerful 
prophecy  for  the  future  he  might  venture 
upon. 

"How  could  she  help  repining?"  she  asked, 
in  angry  response  to  some  very  distinct  pricks 
from  her  own  conscience.  "Henry  was  all  she 
had  in  the  world.  She  loved  him  better 
than  she  did  all  the  world  put  together. 
He  was  actually  demeaning  himself  to  the 
ranks  of  a  day  laborer,  and  she  was  expected 
to  look  on  and  smile  approvingly,  which 
was  asking  her  to  turn  monster."  That  was 
one  view  of  the  situation.  She  looked  at  him 
with  an  anxious  gaze  this  evening,  as  he  came 
heavily  toward  her  with  his  shotgun  resting 
on  his  shoulder  and  his  dinner-pail  swung 
across  its  muzzle.  How  extremely  listless  his 
entire  aspect!  And  how  deliberate  his  steps! 


148  BALDY'S  POINT. 

It  was  almost  as  if  he  came  toward  her  reluct 
antly.  Mrs.  White  sometimes  had  intuitions, 
but  she  did  not  always  profit  by  them. 

"You  are  late,  son,"  said  she,  in  her  sweet, 
plaintive  voice*  standing  at  the  head  of  the 
steps  to  meet  him. 

"A  little,"  he  answered,  taking  off  his  hat  as 
he  stooped  to  give  her  the  kiss  she  had  always 
exacted  at  his  goings  out  and  comings  in ; 
"but  you  haven't  been  worrying  about  me,  I 
hope." 

"I'm  always  doing  that,"  she  said,  with  un 
smiling  veracity,  "but  it  doesn't  seem  to  mend 
matters  much.  It  all  passes  for  a  weak  wom 
an's  unreasonableness.  I  suppose  I  am 
foolish." 

He  moved  silently  on  into  the  hall,  where  he 
stood  his  shotgun  up  in  the  corner  by  his  rifle 
and  placed  his  tin  pail  on  the  hat-rack.  The 
hat-rack  was  one  of  the  few  ante-bellum  articles 
of  furniture  at  Whitefields  that  had  not  gone 
to  ruin.  It  was  an  absurdly  large  affair  of 
carved  rosewood,  with  marble  slabs,  and  beveled 
mirrors,  and  lacquered  sea-shells  to  hold  drip 
ping  umbrellas,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Henry's 
battered  tin  pail,  with  the  top  crushed  in, 
was  offensively  duplicated  in  the  plate-glass 
mirror.  It  was  as  if  Mrs.  White  was  being  re 
minded  twice  over  of  her  son's  descent  to  the 


BALDY'S  POINT.  149 

ranks  of  the  day  laborer.  She  took  it  up  with 
a  significant  little  twitch,  and,  holding  it  rather 
unnecessarily  far  from  her,  moved  with  it 
toward  the  back  gallery. 

"There  are  no  ants  in  it,"  said  Henry,  whose 
preference  always  was  to  turn  these  dumb 
protests  of  his  mother's  into  jest. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  ants,"  said  Mrs.  White, 
following  him  into  her  own  room,  where  he 
had  gone  to  "freshen  up"  a  little  for  supper, 
"but  the  little  while  you  are  at  home  with  me, 
Henry,  I  prefer  not  being  reminded  of  your 
degradation." 

"I'm  sorry  you  will  persist  in  taking  such  an 
uncomfortable  view  of  the  situation,  mother, 
but  I  declare  I  don't  see  how  I  can  convert  you 
to  my  way  of  thinking." 

"It's  not  what  I  think  of  the  whole  thing 
that  matters/'said  Mrs.  White,  entirely  effacing 
herself  by  an  accent,  as  she  turned  toward  the 
closet  to  get  out  a  fresh  towel  for  him,  "but  it's 
the  excuse  it  gives  these  new  people  for  speak 
ing  impertinently  of  you" — she  laid  the  fresh 
towel  close  at  hand  for  him.  She  never  neg 
lected  the  slightest  thing  that  would  make 
Henry  comfortable.  "Why,  really,  Henry, 
they  don't  seem  to  think  you  are  a  bit  better 
than  themselves  since  you've  taken  to  going  off 
every  morning  with  your  tin  pail  on  your  arm, 


15°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

and  only  this  noon,  when  I  told  that  outrageous 
Henry  Robinson— 

The  wash-bowl  came  down  on  the  marble 
slab  of  the  wash-stand  with  a  crash.  Henry 
had  lifted  it  high  in  two  shaking  hands  and 
dropped  it.  It  lay  in  many  pieces  on  the  stand 
and  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  White  looked  from  her 
son  to  the  broken  bits  of  china.  His  face 
wore  a  dark  flush,  and  before  he  buried  his  wet 
head  in  the  towel  she  caught  a  gleam  in  his 
eyes  which  she  had  never  before  seen  there. 
Some  of  his  comrades  on  the  battle-field 
had. 

"Really,  Henry,  if  I  didn't  know  better  I 
would  say  you  did  that  on  purpose,"  she  said, 
lifting  her  skirts  high  and  stepping  carefully 
over  the  wet  place  on  the  carpet  to  pick  up  the 
fragments  of  china. 

"I  will  do  that,  mother,  if  you  will  wait  a 
second,"  he  said,  emerging  from  the  towel  with 
humble  apology  in  his  looks,  but  with  no 
attempt  at  an  explanation. 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter,"  said  Mrs. 
White,  in  an  injured  voice.  "So  long  as  you've 
come  down  to  eating  your  dinner  out  of  a  tin 
pail,  I  might  as  well  come  down  to  washing  my 
face  in  a  tin  basin.  That  bowl"  (with  plaintive 
emphasis  on  the  pronoun)  "was  of  real  china, 
and  almost  as  old  as  you  are.  There  he  is 


EALDY'S  POINT.  151 

again !"  Mrs.  White's  tone  and  expression 
changed  suddenly  from  injured  acceptance  of 
the  inevitable  to  active  animosity.  From  her 
position  at  the  wash-stand  she  could  see  the 
kitchen  door.  Into  its  dark  recess  a  tall  form 
had  that  moment  been  engulfed,  but  not  so 
quickly  that  she  had  not  identified  it. 

"There  who  is  again?"  Henry  asked,  rising 
from  the  floor  with  his  hands  full  of  broken 
china. 

"That  Henry  Robinson.  He  comes  to  the 
kitchen  as  regularly  as — Where  are  you  going, 
Henry?  My  son,  come  back.  Don't  you  know 
you  must  use  a  little  policy  with  these  creat 
ures?" 

But  he  was  gone,  and,  as  she  stood  there 
trembling,  the  sound  of  angry  words  and  high- 
pitched  voices  came  up  to  her  from  the  yard. 
She  could  hear  Henry's  voice  raised  in  com 
mand.  She  could  hear  a  sullen  retort.  Then  a 
sound  of  scuffling  feet  and  a  gurgle  of  resist 
ance,  as  of  some  one  denied  the  free  use  of  his 
tongue,  and  a  little  later  on  the  slamming  of  the 
gate.  Henry  came  back  to  her  presently,  look 
ing  white  and  exhausted. 

"What  have  you  done?"  his  mother  asked  in 
a  frightened  whisper. 

"Put  him  out  the  gate  for  to-night,"  said 
Henry,  readjusting  his  cravat  before  the  glass 


152  BALDY'S  POINT. 

with  trembling  hand.  "To-morrow  I'll  get  out 
a  writ  of  ejectment  for  him." 

"Pray  don't  be  rash,  Henry,"  Mrs.  White 
said,  anxiously.  "You  know  there's  no  end  to 
the  mischief  these  creatures  can  do." 

"Yes,  I  know  it;  I've  just  been  reminded  of 
it.  But  it  won't  do  to  let  them  think  you're 
afraid  of  them.  I'll  go  in  the  first  thing 
to-morrow  and  see  Miss  Ray's  friend." 

Mrs.  White  repeated  the  closing  words  of  his 
sentence  like  a  mystified  echo — "Miss  Ray's 
friend !" 

"Yes,  the  Provost  Marshal,"  said  Henry,  now 
gotten  to  the  end  of  his  immense  stock  of 
patience.  He  had  found  life  a  very  bitter  thing 
all  this  day.  Fate  had  been  pricking  him  with 
her  sharpest  thorns,  and  the  result  was  that 
his  overtaxed  nervous  system  yielded  to  the 
strain,  and  he  hurled  one  embittered  reproach 
at  the  woman  who  was  such  a  large  integer  in 
his  present  unhappiness. 

The  envelope  burned  in  his  pocket;  he 
plucked  it  out  and  cast  it  down  before  his 
mother. 

"Miss  Ray's  friend,"  he  repeated — "the  gen 
tleman  who  has  his  heel  on  the  neck  of  all  her 
old  friends,  but  receives  notes  from  her." 

Mrs.  White  was  frightened  and  stilled.  She 
had  never  seen  Henry  quite  like  this  before. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  153 

His  eyes  were  positively  black  from  passion. 
She  wished  she  had  never  mentioned  that  affair 
of  Henry  Robinson.  But  how  could  she  tell 
that  Henry  had  come  home  ready  for  an  explo 
sion?  Deaf!  how  irascible  he  had  become! 
She  was  actually  getting  to  be  afraid  to  open 
her  mouth  !  Life  wore  a  decidedly  uncomfort 
able  aspect  at  Whitefields  that  night  for  the 
mother  and  son.  But  there  was  no  self- 
reproach  in  Mrs.  White's  reflections. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MRS.   WHITE   TURNS   DIPLOMAT. 

WHEN  Henry,  the  next  morning  at  the 
breakfast-table,  proposed  to  his  mother 
that  she  should  ride  in  with  him  to  Baldy's 
Point,  she  put  the  coffee-pot  down  with  a 
hasty  thump  and  looked  across  at  him  in  un 
disguised  surprise.  It  was  so  very  unex 
pected,  you  see.  Since  he  had  become  "a 
day  laborer"  (Mrs.  White  frequently  scourged 
herself  with  those  words  as  she  would  with  a 
knout),  whenever  actual  necessity  compelled 
him  to  go  to  town  to  see  about  a  supply  of 
meal  or  pork,  or  something  of  that  sort  for  the 
plantation,  he  had  generally  saddled  his  horse 
before  breakfast,  and,  gulping  that  meal,  had 
dashed  in  and  back  again  quite  as  if  he  were 
under  a  severe  wage-master  who  was  likely  to 
dock  him  for  loss  of  time.  But  here  he  was 
actually  proposing  to  take  her  with  him  in  the 
buggy.  Her  buggy  was  one  of  Henry's  im 
provements.  He  had  tinkered  at  the  old  one 
and  painted  it  and  furbished  it,  "for  all  the 
world,"  she  said  in  mournful  notes  of  enforced 
154 


BALDY'S  POINT.  15$ 

admiration,  "as  if  he'd  been  born  in  a  carriage- 
maker's  shop." 

"It's  that  matter  of  the  china  bowl,"  she  said 
to  herself,  once  more  taking  up  the  coffee-pot 
after  she  had  given  him  an  eager  assent.  "No 
doubt  he  feels  badly  enough  about  it,  and 
wants  me  to  look  for  its  match."  While  he, 
to  whom  the  bowl  was  already  an  effaced 
accident,  was  wishing  it  was  not  necessary  to  so 
encumber  himself  on  his  errand  to  the  Provost 
Marshal. 

But  the  man  with  whom  he  had  come  in  con 
tact  the  night  before  was  little  better  than  a 
vicious  brute  when  thoroughly  aroused,  and 
might  put  some  of  his  many  threats  against 
himself  into  execution  during  his  absence.  He 
would  feel  safer  to  take  his  mother  along. 

The  ride  to  Baldy's  Point  was  accomplished 
in  almost  unbroken  silence.  Mrs.  White  was 
inclined  to  look  upon  it  as  an  intervention  of 
Providence  in  her  behalf.  Ever  since  Henry 
had  thrown  that  crumpled,  empty  envelope 
down  before  her  in  such  a  blaze  of  passion,  she 
had  been  longing  for  an  opportunity  to  inter 
view  Fanny  Ray.  She  took  quite  a  hopeful 
view  of  that  fierce  outburst  of  wrath  on  Henry's 
part.  It  must  have  had  its  rise  in  jealousy, 
and  if  jealousy  were  still  possible,  then  love 
was  by  no  manner  of  means  extinct.  A  load 


156  BALDY'S  POINT. 

was  lifted  from  her  heart.  Never  for  a  moment 
had  she  lost  sight  of  her  darling  scheme  to 
bring  these  two  together,  but  Henry's  awful 
and  stubborn  silence  on  the  subject  had  baffled 
her  up  to  this  moment. 

She  felt  frequently  in  the  little  satchel  she 
carried  in  her  hand  to  make  sure  that  the  tell 
tale  envelope  had  not  taken  fresh  wings  to 
itself  and  flown  out  of  her  reach.  She  meant 
to  lay  it  down  before  Fanny  Ray,  with  dra 
matic  suddenness,  and  ask  her  to  explain  it. 
She  was  not  quite  sure  yet  how  this  was  to 
eventuate  in  a  reconciliation,  but  once  let  these 
two  foolish  young  people  understand  that 
memory  occasionally  busied  herself  about  their 
affairs,  and  things  would  work  around  all  right. 

Mrs.  White  had  boundless  theoretical  confi 
dence  in  the  ability  of  Providence  to  adjust 
matters  here  below,  but  she  was  never  averse 
to  lending  Providence  a  helping  hand  ;  so,  while 
she  leaned  placidly  back  against  the  freshly 
upholstered  cushions  of  the  renovated  buggy, 
she  was  arranging  every  detail  of  the  coming 
interview  with  Fanny.  While  he,  leaning 
slightly  forward  as  he  drove  as  rapidly  as  his 
horse  could  be  induced  to  get  over  the  heavy 
swamp  roads,  was  thinking  of  nothing  on  earth 
but  the  bitter  necessity  of  going  to  this  Provost 
Marshal  with  his  complaint  and  demanding  the 


BALDY'S  POINT.  157 

removal  of  his  obnoxious  tenant.  The  chief 
bitterness  of  it  lay  in  the  fact  that  only  yester 
day  he  had  informed  this  intermeddler  that  he 
was  quite  able  to  attend  to  his  own  affairs,  but 
he  had,  since  making  that  bold  assertion,  been 
openly  defied  by  the  negro,  who  had  said, 
insolently,  that  there  was  "but  one  white  man 
in  the  country  who  could  make  him  budge,  and 
that  man  wasn't  named  White." 

"Of  course  he  meant  Wesley  Ford,"  said 
Henry  to  himself,  giving  the  unoffending  ani 
mal  between  the  new  shafts  of  the  old  buggy 
several  entirely  uncalled-for  reminders  that  he 
held  the  whip-hand  of  him  at  least. 

"Where  shall  I  put  you  down,  mother?"  he 
asked,  as  they  finally  trotted  into  Baldy's  Point 
in  fine  style. 

"At  Sellers's,"  Mrs.  White  answered,  briskly. 
"I've  got  to  look  for  some  lima  beans  and  okra 
'seed,  and  I  want  to  see  if  he's  ordered  that 
churn  from  New  Orleans  I  wrote  in  about ;  and 
I've  got  a  few  new  potatoes  for  Mrs.  Sellers 
under  the  seat  here.  And  you  can  take  me  up 
here  too,  son,"  she  added,  clambering  stiffly 
down  from  the  tall  buggy  on  to  Sellers's  gallery, 
assisted  by  Henry  and  Sellers  and  the  clerk. 
"  I'm  not  in  visiting  rig  to-day.  Give  Mr. 
Sellers  the  potatoes  from  under  the  seat, 
Henry." 


158  SALDY'S  POINT. 

She  was  gone ;  had  disappeared  within  the 
store.  She  did  not  tell  him  that  she  knew  of  a 
straight  and  narrow  path  that  led  directly  from 
Mr.  Sellers's  cow-lot  into  Judge  Ray's  back 
garden.  There  was  always  a  picket  off  some 
where  in  the  fence  that  divided  the  Sellers 
property  from  the  Rays'.  Neither  Mrs.  Ray 
nor  Mrs.  Sellers  would  have  entertained  the 
idea  of  a  perfect  fence  for  one  instant.  It  was 
the  greatest  convenience  in  the  world,  that  hole 
in  the  fence,  when  Mrs.  Ray  wanted  to  send 
over  to  Mrs.  Sellers  for  a  cup  of  yeast  to  start 
her  own  with,  or  Mrs.  Sellers  wanted  to  slip 
through  to  hunt  the  nest  of  that  perverse 
turkey-hen  that  showed  such  an  incurable 
preference  for  the  Rays'  orchard  over  its  legit 
imate  and  carefully  prepared  nest  in  the  cav 
ernous  depths  of  a  recumbent  sugar  hogs 
head. 

Until  this  unhappy  estrangement  between 
Fanny  and  Henry,  Mrs.  White  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  driving  boldly  up  to  the  Judge's  front 
door  and  calmly  announcing  her  intention  of 
spending  the  day,  sure  always  of  a  turbulent 
welcome  from  the  Judge  down  to  "Major," 
Fanny's  big  black  Newfoundland  dog,  who 
knew  her  quite  well ;  but  the  front  door  of  the 
Ray  house  faced  immediately  on  the  Court 
house  square,  where  Henry  had  gone  to  inter- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  159 

view  that  terrible  Provost  Marshal,  so  she  must 
approach  Fanny  surreptitiously. 

She  was  compelled  to  take  Mrs.  Sellers  par 
tially  into  her  confidence,  for  what  excuse 
could  she  offer  for  plunging  straight  through 
her  premises  via  the  cow-lot  ?  Mrs.  Sellers  was 
the  most  tractable  of  mortals,  and  when  she 
gathered  that  Mrs.  White  wanted  to  see  Fanny 
in  "hopes  of  adjusting  that  unhappy  affair," 
she  herself  piloted  her  visitor  through  the  back 
premises  down  through  the  cow-lot,  and  gave 
her  a  cordial  I' envoi  in  shape  of  a  vigorous 
squeeze  through  the  aperture.  Mrs.  White  was 
a  taller  and  a  larger  woman  than  either  Mrs. 
Ray  or  Mrs.  Sellers,  and  when  her  chin  and  her 
knees  were  brought  into  violent  and  sudden 
juxtaposition  by  the  exigencies  of  space,  and 
it  was  found  necessary  for  Mrs.  Sellers  to  eject 
her  forcibly,  as  it  were,  into  the  Ray  orchard, 
she  felt  very  surreptitious  indeed. 

Miss  Ray,  curled  up  in  the  hammock  on  her 
father's  back  gallery  at  that  moment,  was 
quietly  crying  to  herself.  She  felt  miserably 
nervous  and  unstrung.  There  was  that  affair 
of  the  Provost  Marshal.  She  knew  it,  or  she 
rather,  had  been  discussed  in  every  house  at 
Baldy's  Point  before  this.  But  that  was  not 
what  had  brought  her  to  the  point  of  tears  just 
then.  She  had  taken  that  step  after  advising 


160  BALDY'S  POINT. 

calmly  and  deliberately  with  her  own  con 
science.  That  was  the  only  counselor  she  ever 
treated  with  marked  consideration.  She  was 
quite  sure  she  had  done  right  so  far,  but  there 
might  be  consequences.  In  fact,  she  had  just 
seen  something  that  made  her  think  there  was 
already  a  sequel  to  that  visit  of  the  Provost 
Marshal's  to  Whitefields,  and  she  felt  a  sicken 
ing  sense  of  responsibility  for  everything  just 
then.  Sitting  at  the  sewing-machine  which 
stood  by  the  front  window  in  her  mother's 
room — for  the  best  light  was  in  that  corner — 
she  had  seen  a  familiar  object,  three  familiar 
objects  in  fact,  advancing  up  the  road  that 
led  straight  by  the  Judge's  door  before  cut 
ting  across  the  Court-house  square  to  the 
county  offices.  The  three  familiar  objects 
were  the  horse  that  Henry  White  was  driv 
ing,  the  buggy  he  sat  in,  and  the  man  himself. 
She  closed  her  eyes  at  the  first  glimpse  of  them, 
and  felt  ashamed  of  the  hot  rush  of  blood 
that  dyed  her  very  neck  crimson. 

Had  some  miracle  been  performed,  and  was 
Henry  coming  to  tell  her  he  had  forgiven  her 
heartless  foolishness  and  that  he  loved  her  yet? 
And  was  he  coming  to  take  her  on  one  of  those 
long,  delicious  rides  that  he  and  she  used  to 
take  so  often,  bowling  along  the  river  bank 
below  Baldy's  Point,  with  the  green  rampart  of 


£ALDY'S  POINT.,  161 

the  levee  studded  with  wild  camomile  on  the 
one  side  of  them,  and  the  tender  fringe  of  the 
button-willow  and  the  elder-bushes  on  the 
other?  Ah!  what  sweet  visions  came  from  out 
the  past  to  meet  her  in  that  one  second  of 
wondering  uncertainty !  No,  he  was  not  com 
ing  to  her.  He  had  driven  past  the  house 
without  one  sidewise  glance,  had  turned  his 
horse's  head  across  the  square,  and  was  soon 
engulfed  by  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the 
big  Court-house  gate. 

It  was  then  that  she  had  stolen  away  from 
the  sewing-machine  with  a  sudden  plea  of  head 
ache  addressed  to  her  mother,  who  was  cutting 
out  something  big  and  white  and  intricate  on 
the  bed,  and  who  had  her  mouth  too  full  of  pins 
just  then  to  sympathize  or  to  advise.  She  was 
half  frightened.  Suppose  this  sudden  descent 
upon  the  Provost  meant  mischief!  How  did 
she  know  that  Henry  White  might  not  have 
come  there  to  give  him  his  opinion  about  his 
meddling  propensities!  And  supposing  they 
should  both  get  angry,  and  from  rude  words 
come  to  something  worse — and  it  was  all  her 
fault !  Small  wonder  the  tears  came  hot  and 
fast  and  readily. 

She  heard  some  one  come  almost  stealthily 
up  on  the  back  gallery,  but  she  was  too 
absorbed  to  open  her  eyes  and  see  that  it  was 


162  BALDY'S  POINT. 

not  Mrs.  Sellers.  Mrs.  White  really  did  ad 
vance  with  unnecessary  caution.  This  whole 
proceeding  was  so  enveloped  in  secrecy  that, 
although  it  was  high  noon,  with  a  brilliant  sun 
overhead,  and  the  mocking-birds  that  always 
rested  in  the  crape-myrtle  tree  by  the  Rays' 
back  gallery  were  singing  away  in  that  tireless 
fashion  that  belongs  to  them  exclusively,  she 
felt  all  the  sensations  of  an  inexperienced  bur 
glar  as  she  placed  her  foot  on  the  gallery  floor 
and  struck  a  loose  plank  which  gave  a  most 
unseemly  report  of  her  presence  and  made  her 
start  violently. 

"Fanny,"  she  called  softly,  advancing  on  the 
recumbent  figure  in  the  hammock.  "Fanny, 
dear!" 

Fanny  opened  her  eyes  suddenly,  and  the 
next  moment  was  sobbing  hysterically  in  Mrs. 
White's  arms. 

"I've  only  a  very  few  moments,  dearie,"  said 
the  older  woman,  smoothing  the  hair  softly 
back  from  the  girl's  flushed  temples,  "but  I 
want  to  talk  to  you  quite  alone.  Suppose  we 
run  down  to  the  orchard,  then  I  can  slip  back 
through  the  fence  and  be  waiting  at  the  Sel- 
lerses  for  Henry,  and  nobody'll  know.  Henry 
has  gone  to  see  the  Provost." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Fanny,  not  waiting  to 
get  anything  to  throw  over  her  head,  only  too 


BALDY'S  POINT.  163 

eager  to  hear  what  Henry's  mother  might  have 
to  say.  Perhaps  it  was  a  message ! 

Mrs.  White's  prepared  programme  had 
slipped  her  memory  entirely.  She  was  flurried 
and  hurried.  Suppose  Henry  should  come 
back  to  the  store  in  a  great  haste  to  start  home, 
and  no  one  be  able  to  tell  him  what  had 
become  of  her,  and  she  be  finally  compelled  to 
substitute  a  full-blown  falsehood  for  the  nebu 
lous  prevarications  which  good  women  some 
times  convince  themselves  are  necessary  and 
blameless ! 

It  was  past  the  time  of  orchard  bloom,  and 
the  sparse  showing  of  apple  and  peach  and 
apricot  trees  which  the  Judge  nursed  with  such 
assiduity  were  bending  beneath  an  unusual 
promise  of  fruit.  She  stopped  under  the 
shade  of  a  peach-tree,  and,  hastily  rummaging 
in  her  hand-satchel,  brought  out  the  condemna 
tory  envelope. 

"Fanny,  darling,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  somewhat  from  the  excitement  of 
the  occasion,  "I  don't  in  the  least  know  how 
this  fell  into  Henry's  hands,  and  I'm  quite  sure 
you'd  never  do  anything  that  a  young  girl 
could  not  do  with  perfect  propriety,  but,  my 
poor  boy,  oh,  Fanny !  he's  been  in  such  a  way !" 

Fanny  took  the  envelope  wonderingly.  Then 
a  radiant  gleam  came  into  her  eyes. 


1 66  BALDY'S  POINT. 

This  is  for  your  comfort,  not  for  his.  Swear  to 
me  you'll  not  breathe  one  word  of  this  to  him." 

"I  can't,"  said  Mrs.  White,  looking  anxiously 
upward  to  see  if  the  sun  had  altered  its  posi 
tion  materially  since  she  had  come  into  the 
orchard. 

"Can't  what?    Can't  swear?" 

"Can't  tell  Henry.  Oh,  Fanny!  he's  grown 
so  stern  and  exacting  of  late !  Why,  I  hardly 
know  my  own  child.  I'd  never  dare  to  own 
that  I'd  been  near  you." 

"No!" 

Miss  Ray  did  not  seem  to  be  very  much  dis 
composed  by  this  information.  She  could  cope 
with  anything  in  her  old  lover  but  frozen  indif 
ference.  Once  the  idea  gained  ground  in  her 
mind  that  she  still  had  possession  of  his  heart, 
let  her  tenure  be  ever  so  slight,  she  composedly 
assured  herself  that  she  could  enlarge  that 
tenure  at  will.  How  much  brighter  the  world 
had  grown  of  a  sudden  ! 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  Mrs.  White  said, 
twining  her  arms  around  Fanny's  slim  waist. 
"Henry  will  never  spend  one  unnecessary 
moment  away  from  his  work.  He  came  in  to 
see  that  Mr.  Ford  about  that  Henry  Robinson." 

Fanny  breathed  freely.  Then  it  was  not  a 
personal  encounter  over  there,  such  as  she 
had  nervously  pictured  to  herself !  Then  they 


BALDY'S  POINT.  167 

kissed  each  other  fervently,  these  two  woman 
who  had  one  common  love  between  them,  and 
Mrs.  White  walked  away  rapidly  toward  the 
opening  in  the  fence,  but  Fanny  stood  quite 
still  under  the  peach-tree  tearing  the  envelope 
into  small  bits. 

"Henry  White  jealous!  Delicious!" 
She  said  it  aloud,  then  laughed  for  very  glad 
ness  at  the  thought,  and  turning  slowly  back 
toward  the  hammock,  she  flung  herself  into  its 
meshes  and  dreamed  the  whole  bright  morning 
away  in  sweet  imaginings  of  what  might  yet  be. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  PROVOST'S  MAIL. 

mail  that  the  Provost  Marshal  helped 
-I  himself  to  out  of  the  pigeon-hole  in  the 
box  on  Sellers's  counter  the  next  morning 
contained  a  letter  which  set  him  to  pondering 
deeply.  It  also  opened  up  some  very  bright 
possibilities,  which  he  was  almost  afraid  to 
welcome  too  eagerly,  for  fear  of  their  turning 
into  disappointing  impossibilities.  He  had 
grown  a  trifle  morbid  since  his  separation  from 
Ann,  and  had  formed  a  habit  of  accusing  Fate 
of  malice  prepense  where  he  was  concerned. 

The  letter  in  question  was  from  his  wife,  and 
one  paragraph  in  it  surprised  him  immensely, 
and  set  him  to  maneuvering  energetically 

"Among  the  names  you  mention  as  those 
of  the  principal  people  in  your  neighborhood," 
Ann  wrote,  "I  see  those  of  Major  Wilson  and 
his  daughter  Amy.  Can  it  be  my  very  own 
cousin,  Amy  Wilson?  But  they  lived  in  New 
Orleans.  Mamma's  only  sister  married  a  Mr. 
Wilson  (he  might  have  gotten  to  be  a  major, 
you  know,  during  the  war),  and  her  name  wa? 
168 


BALDY'S  POINT.  169 

Amy.  I've  seen  my  Aunt  Amy.  Mamma  and 
I  visited  her  once  in  New  Orleans,  and  I  used 
to  be  perfectly  happy  at  her  house,  though  a 
little  bit  afraid  of  her  husband,  Mr.  Wilson. 
Amy — my  cousin  Amy,  I  mean — used  to  come 
on  here  from  Troy,  where  she  was  at  school,  to 
spend  her  holidays  with  us.  She  was  an  angel. 
Do  find  out  immediately  if  these  Wilsons  are 
the  same  people,  for  if  they  are  I  will  not 
consent  to  remain  away  from  you  another 
month.  You  tell  me  you  'could  not  subject 
me  to  the  coldness  and  dislike  that  are  your 
daily  portion' ;  but  I  do  not  believe  even  this 
terrible  war  could  have  altered  my  darling  Amy 
so  that  she  would  not  make  me  welcome.  I 
am  going  to  write  to  her  myself  by  this  same 
mail.  If  there's  a  mistake,  and  the  Wilsons 
you  speak  of  are  not  my  Wilsons,  I'm  sure  they 
can't  execute  us  for  the  mistake.  I'm  going  to 
board  with  them." 

As  the  Provost  folded  up  this  surprising 
document,  he  said  to  himself  that  "perhaps 
Ann  had  been  a  little  hasty."  He  was  as 
morally  sure  as  a  man  could  be  of  an  unseen 
thing  that  the  same  mail  which  brought  his 
letter  from  Ann  had  brought  one  to  this  Miss 
Wilson,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whom 
he  had  heard  such  remarkable  things.  Should 
she  really  prove  to  be  Ann's  cousin,  how  much 


17°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

pleasanter  things  might  be  made  for  that  dear 
little  patient  woman  waiting  up  there  in  Ver 
mont  for  him  to  say  "Come."  When  it  had 
seemed  utterly  impossible  to  have  her  with  him 
he  had  cultivated  the  stoical  element  in  him 
self;  but  now  that  Fate  seemed  smoothing  the 
way  for  him  so  unexpectedly  he  yielded  to  the 
impetuous  element  in  him.  The  impetuous  ele 
ment  in  him  carried  him  to  Judge  Ray's  door, 
where  he  asked  boldly  "to  see  the  family." 

Mrs.  Ray  came  in,  but  reported  the  Judge 
as  being  too  busy  to  be  disturbed.  "Would 
Mr.  Ford  state  his  business  through  Mrs. 
Ray?" 

Mr.  Ford  flushed  to  the  temples.  Mrs.  Ray 
had  three  anxious  little  puckers  on  her  forehead 
which  always  deepened  into  furrows  in  mo 
ments  of  perplexity.  "It  might  really  be  dan 
gerous,"  she  said  to  herself,  "to  slight  this 
young  man."  The  Provost  felt  in  his  pocket 
for  Ann's  letter.  He  wished  he  had  dared  to 
ask  for  Miss  Ray  alone.  She  was  "broader" 
than  these  old  folks  to  whom  she  belonged. 

"I  merely  called  this  morning,  Mrs.  Ray,"  he 
began,  with  an  unfortunate  stiffening  of  man 
ner,  "to  ask  a  few  questions." 

Mrs.  Ray's  anxious  puckers  deepened  per 
ceptibly.  She  was  a  timid  soul.  "At  best," 
she  hastily  considered,  "questions  were  entang- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  I?! 

ling,  and  answers  compromising."  She  only 
saw,  in  the  extremely  erect  young  man  before 
her,  a  Government  official,  who  might  or  might 
not  be  about  to  entangle  her  in  some  damaging 
admissions,  from  which  not  even  the  Judge, 
with  all  his  legal  lore  and  natural  acuteness, 
could  exculpate  her.  And  Mrs.  Ray  could 
imagine  no  higher  degree  of  perplexity.  Come 
what  might,  "that  man"  should  extract  nothing 
but  the  vaguest  generalities  from  her. 

"Do  you  know  the  Wilsons  who  live  back 
here  somewhere  out  on  the  plank  road,  Mrs. 
Ray?"  he  asked,  putting  his  finger  on  the  name 
of  Wilson  in  Ann's  letter,  as  he  fixed  the 
Judge's  wife  with  a  rather  unnecessarily  intense 
gaze. 

"Which  Wilsons?  There's  no  end  of  Wik 
sons  in  this  county.  There's  old  John  Wilson, 
the  blacksmith,  and  a  lazier  mortal  never 
lived — it  puzzles  me  to  know  how  he  does 
keep  from  starving — and  the  Wilson  girls, 
whose  father  was  a  steamboat  captain  about 
twenty  years  ago — and  Lawyer  Wilson,  but  I 
expect  there's  more  Wilson  than  lawyer 
there" — (Mrs.  Ray  evidently  purposed  making 
up  in  volubility  what  she  might  lack  in  explic- 
itness — but  the  Provost  brought  her  up  with  a 
"round  turn,"  so  to  speak). 

"I   mean   Major    Wilson,    who  lives  on  his 


172  BALDY'S  POINT. 

plantation  back  here  somewhere  in  the  swamp, 
with  his  only  child,  a  Miss  Amy  Wilson." 

Thus  forced  into  a  corner,  Mrs.  Ray  said, 
shortly:  "Yes,  I  know  them;  what  then?" 

"Did  they  ever  make  their  residence  in  New 
Orleans?" 

Now,  Mrs.  Ray  knew  as  well  as  she  knew 
anything  in  the  world  that  it  was  only  after  his 
wife's  death  that  Major  Wilson,  turning  away 
in  bitterness  of  spirit  from  the  rush  and  clamor 
of  city  life,  had  established  himself  personally 
on  the  plantation  and  turned  "Amy  out  to  skir 
mish  for  herself,"  as  he  had  expressed  it  at  the 
time.  But  how  did  she  know  what  this  man 
had  gotten  hold  of  against  the  Major,  who  may 
have  been  whatever  you  please  before  the  war, 
but  was  down  now,  and  she  was  the  last  person 
to  give  him  another  blow? 

She  "supposed  Major  Wilson  might  have 
had  business  in  New  Orleans,  as  every  cotton 
planter  had,  when  they'd  had  business  any 
where.  She  knew  very  little  of  their  affairs." 

"Could  you  give  me  his  wife's  maiden  name, 
Mrs.  Ray?"  The  Provost  asked  this,  taking 
out  his  pencil,  which  made  the  Judge's  wife 
feel  quite  as  if  she  were  giving  her  deposition, 
and  for  all  she  knew  she  might  be  helping  to 
take  the  very  roof  from  over  Amy  Wilson's 
head. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  i?3 

She  wished  from  her  heart  the  Judge  had 
come  in  here,  or  even  Fanny,  either  one  of 
whom  could  manage  this  man  better  than  she. 
She  was  sure  she  was  being  interviewed  for 
some  sinister  motive. 

"Mrs.  Wilson's  maiden  name?"  she  repeated, 
reflectively.  "Mrs.  Wilson's — maiden — I've 
such  a  wretched  memory." 

Fate  favored  her  at  that  moment.  Fanny 
had  fully  intended  making  her  appearance  in 
the  parlor  before  Mr.  Ford's  departure,  but  as 
she  did  not  intend  he  should  presume  too  far 
on  yesterday's  accommodation,  she  timed  her 
arrival  to  suit  herself,  and  when  she  did  come 
in  she  was  habited  and  hatted  for  her  usual 
morning's  gallop  on  horseback.  The  day  must 
be  very  bleak  to  induce  her  to  forego  this 
pleasure.  She  meant  he  should  see  her  preoc 
cupation. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  the 
said,  standing  before  the  Provost  with  her  long 
skirt  gathered  up  in  one  little  gauntleted  hand, 
"for  what  you  did  yesterday.  You  told  me 
then  you  would  let  me  know  later  on  what 
price  you  put  on  your  services.  It  was  very 
good  of  you." 

Wesley  Ford  withdrew  the  hand  which  he 
had  involuntarily  extended,  and  looked  down 
on  her  silently.  "So  slight  and  tender  looking, 


174  BALDY'S  POINT. 

and  yet  so  coolly  insulting,"  was  what  he  was 
thinking.  Then,  with  the  disappointment  of  it 
all  sweeping  away  his  better  judgment,  he 
spoke  hot,  passionate  words  that  showed  these 
two  women  the  human  side  of  this  Govern 
ment  tool. 

"I  came  here  this  morning,  Miss  Ray,  to 
name  my  price  for  services  rendered,  as  you 
are  pleased  to  put  it ;  but  since  I've  come  I'm 
quite  convinced  it  would  be  entirely  too  high, 
in  your  estimation,  so  I  prefer  naming  none — 

"It's  for  me  to  judge  of  my  own  ability  to 
pay,"  she  said  coldly,  raising  her  head  slightly, 
and  looking  at  him  calmly  as  he  stood  flushed 
and  uncomfortable  before  her. 

"You  shall  judge  then,  and  if  I  ask  too  much, 
you  can  simply  order  me  from  your  presence." 

"He  is  going  to  propose  to  her,  right  here 
and  now,"  Mrs.  Ray  said  to  herself,  violently 
perturbed  over  such  unprecedented  impudence. 
"I'm  quite  sure  the  Judge  will  have  to  come 
in,  after  all." 

"I  came  over  here  this  morning,"  said  the 
Provost  desperately,  "to  ask  a  few  simple  ques 
tions  about  some  of  your  neighbors.  I've 
grown  used  to  being  misunderstood  every  time 
I  open  my  mouth,  but  suspicion  of  me  doesn't 
always  crop  out  as  plainly  as  it  has  here  this 
morning.  I  wish  I  could  convince  you  people 


BALDY'S  POINT.  175 

that  I  want  to  be  of  service  to  you  if  you  will 
let  me." 

"Did  you  want  to  be  of  service  to  the 
Wilsons?"  Mrs.  Ray  asked  with  a  suspicious 
ring  in  her  voice. 

"No.  My  inquiries  concerning  the  Wilsons 
were  altogether  selfish.  I  wanted  to  find  out 
if  Miss  Amy  Wilson  is  or  is  not  a  cousin  of  my 
wife's." 

"Your  wife's !" 

Quite  as  if  the  possession  of  a  wife  was  the 
last  thing  they  would  have  accused  the  Pro 
vost  of. 

Why  should  both  women  have  voiced  their 
surprise  simultaneously? 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  hurriedly,  thinking  more 
of  Ann's  wishes  just  then  than  of  anything  else 
in  the  world.  "She  writes  me  that  if  this  Miss 
Amy  Wilson  is  her  cousin,  she  feels  quite  sure 
she  will  not  be  averse  to  receiving  her  under 
her  roof,  even  if  she  is  the  wife  of  a  despised 
and  condemned  Federal  official,  and  I  thought 
perhaps  Miss  Ray  would  be  kind  enough  to 
discover  for  me  how  Miss  Wilson  felt  on  the 
subject.  I  had  even  dared  to  think  perhaps 
you  would  give  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  young  lady.  My  wife  seems  to  think  she 
is  an  angel." 

"She  is,"  said  Fanny,  confidently.     Her  feel- 


I?6  BALDY'S  POINT. 

ings  toward  Amy  Wilson  had  undergone  a  tre 
mendous  revulsion  since  Mrs.  White's  visit. 
And  now  here  was  the  Provost  owning  up  to  a 
wife,  and  seeming  to  be  really  fond  of  her,  too. 
What  a  queer  turn  things  had  taken ! 

"I  tell  you  what  I  will  do,"  she  said,  nodding 
her  little  plumed  riding-hat  sagaciously,  as  she 
smiled  pleasantly  up  into  the  young  man's 
flushed  face.  "I  had  just  come  in  here  to  tell 
mamma  that  I  intended  riding  out  to  see  Amy 
this  morning.  You  may  go  with  me,  and  then 
I  know  Amy  and  the  Major  will  receive  you 
kindly.  The  Major  is  my  most  constant 
adorer." 

"Will  you  do  that?"  he  asked  eagerly,  but 
Mrs.  Ray  looked  dissatisfied,  and  fidgeted 
openly. 

"You  don't  like  it,"  said  the  Provost,  turning 
suddenly  upon  her  and  driving  her  to  equivo 
cation. 

"Fanny  is  not  equal  to  so  long  a  ride  on 
horseback.  She's  not  as  strong  as  she  thinks 
she  is." 

"I  will  bring  my  village  cart  if  I  may?" 

Mrs.  Ray  was  silent.  On  the  one  hand  was 
the  shocking  scandal  of  having  Fanny  drive 
through  town  in  a  village  cart  by  the  side  of 
the  Provost  Marshal ;  on  the  other  was  the 
danger  of  offending  this  potentate.  If  the 


BALDY'S  POINT.  177 

Judge  only  wouldn't  shift  everything  on  to 
her  shoulders !  Fanny  was  silent,  too.  If  they 
went  on  horseback,  she  had  meant  to  go  by  a 
bridle-path  through  the  woods,  a  short  cut  to 
the  Wilsons'.  If  she  went  in  the  village  cart, 
they  must  go  by  the  big  road,  and,  Henry 
White  must  exact  toll  of  them.  Her  evil 
genius  whispered  to  her  that  to  go  in  the  village 
cart  by  way  of  the  plank  road  would  inflame 
Henry's  jealousy  to  the  pitch  of  expression. 
"Once  bring  him  to  say  something"  was  her 
process  of  reasoning,  and  she  could  speedily 
adjust  matters. 

"I  will  go  in  the  village  cart,"  she  said,  a 
trifle  nervously,  for  it  certainly  was  rather  a 
daring  thing  to  do,  "and  I  will  change  my 
habit  while  you  are  getting  it  ready." 

"Fanny!"  This  exclamation  came  from  Mrs. 
Ray  as  Ford  bounded  away  in  boyish  eagerness 
to  get  the  gig. 

"You  are  quite  right,  mamma;  I  don't 
believe  I  am  equal  to  the  ride  on  horseback, 
and  I  had  positively  made  up  my  mind  to 
see  Amy  to-day.  So  don't  say  a  word, 
please." 

Her  eyes  sparkled ;  a  bright  spot  of  red 
burned  in  either  cheek.  The  determination  to 
bring  Henry  White  once  more  to  her  feet  as  a 
suppliant  was  intoxicating.  She  was  rapidly 


I?8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

losing  sight  of  every  argument  against  this 
expedition. 

"Then  to  think,  mamma,"  she  said,  "how  im 
mensely  this  may  benefit  the  Wilsons.  If  this 
man  should  turn  out  to  be  a  connection  of 
theirs,  of  course  he  will  take  right  hold  and 
help  that  poor  darling  Amy,  who  is  wearing 
herself  to  a  shadow.  And  how  anxious  he 
seems  to  have  his  wife  with  him !  I  suppose 
he's  human,  if  he  is  a  Provost." 

She  rushed  off  to  rid  herself  of  her  long 
habit,  and  was  standing  waiting  on  the  steps 
when  Wesley  Ford  drove  up  to  the  front  gate 
in  the  smart  little  vehicle  which,  with  its 
glittering  harness  and  fast  trotter,  was  the  envy 
of  all  the  unmarried  youths  of  Baldy's  Point, 
and  an  offense  to  their  elders. 

They  were  gone,  and  it  was  irrevocable,  and 
Mrs.  Ray  went  back  into  the  house  with  tears 
of  mortification  in  her  mild  eyes  and  a  surging 
wish  in  her  gentle  heart  that  Judge  Ray  might 
be  a  little  more  like  other  men. 

As  for  Fanny ! 

The  sense  of  adventure  and  of  daring  was 
uppermost  for  the  first  half  of  the  drive.  She 
was  excited,  and  laughed  and  talked  with  al 
most  hysterical  vivacity.  This  reckless  mood 
was  vastly  becoming  to  her  physically.  Wesley 
Ford  had  always  thought  her  rather  dull  of  color- 


BALDY'S  POINT.  179 

ing  and  abnormally  quiet.  But  this  merry  girl! 
If  she  should  only  "  take  to  him,"  what  good 
comrades  they  would  be !  It  was  of  Ann  he 
was  thinking,  even  while  lending  an  attentive 
ear  to  the  incessant  flow  of  comment  and  ques^ 
tion  from  Fanny's  lips.  She  talked  as  if  she 
were  afraid  to  be  silent.  A  tremulous  dread  of 
the  moment  when  the  gig  should  come  to  a 
standstill,  and  Henry  White  demand  his  toll, 
seized  upon  her,  and  when  the  tall-posted  gate 
loomed  in  sight,  and  she  knew  that  little  shanty 
under  the  sycamore  must  be  where  Henry 
stayed,  the  vivacity  forsook  her.  She  grew 
as  mute  as  a  frightened  bird  in  view  of  a 
coming  storm,  and  the  pretty  color  all  for 
sook  her  cheeks.  As  a  tall  form  rose  from 
somewhere  behind  the  sycamore  tree  and 
advanced  toward  the  gate,  a  violent  trem 
bling  seized  upon  her  and  she  gave  a  little 
audible  gasp. 

"You  are  ill;  shall  I  turn  back?"  asked  Wes 
ley  Ford,  looking  at  her  with  concern,  as  the 
tremor  of  her  frame  conveyed  itself  to  his 
senses.  She  looked  at  him  imploringly  and 
framed  the  words,  "No;  go  on,"  with  her 
lips,  but  no  sound  came  from  them.  It  was  at 
this  moment,  when  their  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  each  other  with  an  intensity  born  of  the 
occasion,-  that  Henry  White  first  recognized 


I  So  BALDY'S  POINT. 

the  inmates  of  the  buggy.  They  were  quite  a 
little  way  off  yet.  He  was  a  prompt  tollman, 
and  never  delayed  a  passenger  at  the  gate.  He 
was  thankful  for  the  short  space  that  inter 
vened  before  the  moment  when  Ford  halted 
his  horse  and  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  toll. 
Fanny  leaned  forward  breathlessly!  If  he 
would  only  look  at  her!  She  could  not  speak! 
But  if  he  would  only  look  at  her  he  would 
see  all — he  could  not  help  seeing  the  plea  for 
forgiveness,  for  it  was  there  in  all  its  fullness  in 
her  eyes  and  in  her  heart !  But  he  did  not 
look  at  her.  He  looked  beyond  her.  There 
was  murder  in  his  heart,  but  he  made  the  cor 
rect  change  for  the  Provost  Marshal  with  a 
steady  hand,  and  stepped  backward  for  them 
to  pass  on  with  outward  composure,  never  once 
letting  his  eyes  drop  from  the  Provost's  face 
to  the  white  cheeks  and  quivering  lips  of  the 
girl  by  his  side. 

He  stood  there  until  the  vehicle  had  passed 
entirely  out  of  sight ;  then  a  fierce  trembling 
seized  upon  him,  and  he  shook  like  a  man 
in  an  ague.  The  sun  blazed  fiercely  down 
upon  him  as  he  stood  leaning  against  the 
gate-post  for  support,  but  he  did  not  feel  it. 
The  clouds  of  dust  raised  by  the  rapidly  rolling 
wheels  of  the  gig  settled  about  his  hat  and 
beard,  but  he  was  unconscious  of  it.  This 


BALDY'S  POINT.  l8l 

sound  of  the  horse's  feet  died  away  in  the  far 
distance,  and  still  he  stood  there. 

"God!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "And  I'll 
have  it  all  to  go  through  when  they  come 
back!  Curse  him !  Curse  her!  The  wanton 
ness  of  her  cruelty  is  monstrous!  What  is  she 
made  of?" 

He  went  back  to  his  work ;  to  his  shingle- 
making.  He  forgot  to  eat  his  luncheon  out  of 
the  tin  pail  that  day.  He  forgot  to  open  Plu 
tarch,  which  he  always  did  at  his  noon  resting- 
time — he  forgot  that  he  needed  rest.  He  only 
saw  Fanny  Ray  sitting  there  by  the  side  of 
the  Provost  Marshal,  beautiful,  cruel,  merciless ! 
It  shamed  him  to  realize  that  he  loved  her 
dearly  yet. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ORDEALS. 

YES,  he  had  it  all  to  go  through  with  again. 
It  was  nearing  the  time  to  close  the  gate 
for  the  day  when  he  saw  the  swiftly  advancing 
clouds  of  dust  which  rolled  up  so  much  quicker 
in  the  wake  of  the  Provost's  fast  trotter  than 
for  the  slower-moving  teams  of  the  natives,  and 
braced  himself  for  the  ordeal.  For  it  was  an 
ordeal  to  have  to  listen  again  to  the  noisy 
clatter  made  by  Ford's  iron-shod  throughbred 
upon  the  planks  of  the  road ;  to  stand  again  in 
readiness  for  the  trim  trap  whose  burnished 
side  and  bright  red  wheels  flashed  with  such  an 
insolent  show  of  prosperity  in  the  slanting  rays 
of  the  sun  that  was  setting  behind  them ;  to 
look  once  more  over  and  beyond  Fanny  Ray 
to  receive  his  toll  from  Wesley  Ford's  detested 
hand ;  to  be  conscious  of  every  curve  of  her 
form,  of  the  downward  sweep  of  her  long 
lashes,  of  the  firm  compression  of  her  lips,  even 
of  the  rigid  clasping  of  her  little  gloved  hands 
about  a  huge  bunch  of  flowers  she  had 
brought  back  with  her,  and  yet  give  no  sign  of 
182 


BALDY'S  POINT.  183 

how  hard  hit  he  was.  Yes,  it  was  an  ordeal, 
but  he  came  triumphantly  out  of  it.  He  stood 
like  a  graven  image  close  enough  to  her  to 
have  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  in  bane  or  in 
blessing.  He  even  managed  to  answer  some 
remark  of  the  Provost's  about  the  heat  of  the 
day,  which  had  been  little  better  than  one  long 
throb  of  agony  to  him,  with  a  fair  show  of  out 
ward  composure.  There  was  no  mute  pleading 
for  recognition  this  time  on  Fanny's  part.  She, 
too,  had  been  bracing  herself  for  this  return 
ordeal  all  through  the  morning  hours  that 
Wesley  Ford  and  Amy  Wilson  had  consumed 
establishing  kinship  and  discussing  arrange 
ments  for  Ann's  comfort.  She  was  glad  their 
absorption  in  the  novelty  of  this  discovery  had 
left  her  so  completely  overlooked ;  glad  that 
the  Major's  confinement  to  his  bed  with  an  ague 
had  relieved  her  of  the  necessity  for  chattering 
in  the  magpie  fashion  she  always  exercised 
for  his  benefit.  She  was  being  sorely  punished 
for  her  foolish  attempt  to  stir  up  the  embers  of 
a  dead  love  by  applying  the  live  coal  of  jealousy 
to  it.  "Henry  White  cared  no  more  for  her," 
she  told  herself  in  rash  bitterness,  "than  he  did 
for  the  dead  leaves  of  the  forest.  He  despised 
her.  She  despised  herself.  If  she  could  only 
stay  out  there  with  Amy,  and  not  go  back  at 
all !  But  that  would  be  acknowledgment  of 


184  SALDY'S  POINT. 

defeat.  He  would  think  she  was  afraid  to  face 
him  again,  and,  however  true  it  might  be,  she 
was  not  going  to  acknowledge  it,  even  tacitly. 
And  the  Provost !  He,  too,  might  suspect 
something  if  she  declined  to  go  back  just  as 
she  had  come.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  play  her  game  of  hazard  out.  If  only  once 
he  would  have  looked  at  me,  he  could  not  have 
helped  seeing!"  That  was  all  her  heart's  re 
frain. 

"I  thought  all  of  you  people  in  the  country 
here  knew  each  other  from  the  cradle  up,  just 
like  one  big  family,  you  know,"  said  the 
Provost,  moving  the  silken  lash  to  his  smart 
buggy  whip  idly  along  his  horse's  glossy 
flanks. 

"You — mean — Mr.  White — and  me?" 

They  were  beyond  the  gate  now,  and  the 
Provost  wanted  to  talk.  Everything  had 
turned  out  so  very  pleasantly  about  Ann's 
cousin,  Amy  Wilson.  He  was  rather  inclined 
to  think  with  his  wife  that  she  was  an  angel, 
she  had  said  with  such  sweet  readiness  that  she 
would  talk  over  with  "papa"  the  matter  of 
taking  Ann  as  boarder,  and  was  quite  sure  he 
wouldn't  object.  He  was  experiencing  a  social 
reaction. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  feel  at  liberty,  you 
know,  to  introduce  you." 


BALDY'S  POINT.  185 

"I  did — I  do  know  him — that  is — I  used  to 
know  him.  We  were  good  friends  once — but  I 
made  him  very  angry — and — and  he  don't  seem 
to  forgive  me.  It  was  all  my  fault — I  acted 
outrageously." 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  this  much.  She  had 
not  meant  to  say  anything,  poor  child !  but  she 
was  entirely  too  miserable  to  weigh  her  words 
or  her  actions  judiciously.  Wesley  Ford's  face 
was  full  of  comprehension  and  sympathy,  so 
were  his  next  words,  which  came  from  him 
rather  bluntly : 

"Oh !  I  see — and — I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm 
afraid  the  day's  been  a  hard  one  on  you.  If  I'd 
known — 

"Don't,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  passionate 
gesture.  "I  did  it  of  my  own  accord,  and  on 
purpose." 

They  rode  on  in  silence  for  a  little  while  after 
that  outburst  of  hers.  The  Provost  had  pleas 
ant  food  for  reflection,  and  proceeded  to 
mentally  compose  a  letter  to  Ann,  in  which  he 
told  her  all  about  her  delightful  cousin,  Miss 
Wilson.  He  wished  the  mails  came  to  and 
went  from  Baldy's  Point  a  little  more  fre 
quently.  He  would  not  be  able  to  post  his 
letter  for  two  days  to  come  yet,  but  he  would 
write  it  that  very  night.  He  had  just  affixed 
the  "yours  adoringly"  to  the  letter  when  Fanny 


186  BALDY'S  POINT. 

leaned  forward  suddenly  with  an  exclamation 
of  impatience. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  rousing  himself  to 
the  fact  of  her  presence  with  apologetic  haste. 

"I've  dropped  my  shawl.  Mamma  would  in 
sist  I  should  put  it  on  as  soon  as  the  sun  set. 
I  am  sure  it  was  on  the  seat  a  moment  ago,  but 
I  can't  find  it  now." 

He  laid  the  reins  on  her  lap  and  sprang  out 
of  the  gig.  "He's  as  gentle  as  a  dog,"  he 
called  back,  taking  sudden  thought  of  her 
possible  fears.  They  had  left  the  shanty  be 
hind  them  more  than  a  mile.  It  was  com 
pletely  hidden  from  sight  already,  for  the  road 
made  a  decided  turn  soon  after  leaving  the 
gate.  The  shades  of  evening  fell  early  in  that 
bit  of  primeval  forest  where  the  mighty  oaks 
and  pecans  and  cottonwoods  clasped  arms  in 
the  upper  air  and  conspired  together  to  shut 
out  the  light  of  day  from  the  road  that  grov 
eled  at  their  feet.  When  the  rapid  clatter  of 
the  horse's  hoofs  was  suddenly  stilled  it  grew 
oppressively  quiet,  and  the  sleepy  twitter  of 
young  birds  in  a  nest  close  over  her  head  came 
distinctly  to  Fanny's  ears.  She  must  have 
dropped  the  shawl  further  back  than  she  had 
at  first  supposed,  for  the  Provost's  form  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  short,  dark  vista  of  the 
road  behind  them  with  startling  suddenness. 


tiALDY'S  POINT.  187 

If  she  only  hadn't  mentioned  her  loss  at  all! 
How  very  crookedly  everything  in  life  was 
going!  The  tears  came  -into  her  eyes.  She 
wiped  them  away  and  sighed.  The  Provost's 
horse  turned  his  head  backward  over  his  mas 
sive  shoulder  to  demand  an  explanation  of  this 
uncalled-for  stoppage,  and  echoed  her  sigh  pon 
derously.  The  mosquitoes  gathered  pestilently 
about  his  sensitive  ears.  He  stamped  im 
patiently  upon  the  planks  under  his  feet,  and 
sighed  again.  Fanny  spoke  soothing  words  to 
him,  and  leaned  over  the  dashboard  to  give  him 
a  reassuring  pat  on  the  back.  A  dog  barked 
in  the  distance ;  it  made  her  feel  immensely  far 
away  from  every  place  and  everybody.  To  her 
over-excited  fancy  it  seemed  hours  since  Wes 
ley  Ford  had  sprung  from  the  gig  to  go  in 
search  of  her  shawl.  Suppose  he  should  go  all 
the  way  back  to  the  shanty  and — 

On  the  quiet  evening  air  a  shot  rang  out ! 
Clearly,  loudly,  terribly  near;  only  one.  The 
horse  started  violently,  gave  a  fierce  snort  of 
terror,  then  stood  quivering  in  the  shafts.  He 
stood  fire  well.  He  had  carried  his  master  all 
through  the  war.  The  girl  who  had  been  kneel 
ing  to  reassure  him  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  gasp 
of  horror.  She  uttered  no  sound.  She  only 
strained  her  frightened  gaze  backward  to  pierce 
the  shadowy  gloom  of  the  road  she  had  trav- 


i8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

eled.  There,  coming  rapidly  toward  her,  not 
directly,  but  with  swaying,  staggering  steps  of 
a  drunken  man,  was  the  Provost  Marshal.  His 
face  was  as  white  as  the  little  cashmere  shawl 
which  he  had  found  and  was  now  holding 
tightly  pressed  against  his  side.  She  could  see 
its  livid  pallor  with  terrible  distinctness  as  he 
staggered  toward  her,  bareheaded.  He  tried 
to  smile  as  he  reached  her  and  groped  for  the 
sides  of  the  gig  with  the  touch  of  a  blind  man, 
but  it  was  a  ghastly  failure.  "I've  been — shot ! 
Can  you  get — me — home?" 

He  spent  all  his  strength  to  say  it.  She 
reached  out  to  him  her  two  trembling  hands. 
Supernatural  strength  was  given  to  her  in  that 
moment.  How  much  of  it  was  will-power  on 
his  part,  how  much  the  power  of  desperation 
on  hers,  she  never  could  tell.  He  was  there, 
in  the  bottom  of  the  gig,  with  his  unconscious 
head  pillowed  on  her  feet,  and  she  urging  the 
horse  over  the  road  in  frenzied  leaps  before  (so 
it  seemed  to  her)  the  reverberation  of  that 
awful  sound  had  died  away  in  the  echoing 
woods. 

He  had  spoken  but  once  after  she  had  gotten 
him  into  the  wagon:  "It  was — an — accident — 
of  course,"  he  gasped,  then  he  had  grown  still. 
So  still  she  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  a  liv 
ing  man  or  a  corpse  she  was  carrying  back  to 


BALDY'S  POINT.  189 

Baldy's   Point  with   all  the    frantic  speed    she 
could  inspire  by  voice  and  whip. 

Of  course  it  was  an  accident !  Of  course  it 
was  an  accident.  She  said  the  words  over  in 
gasps.  She  repeated  them  again  and  again. 
It  was  all  the  comfort  she  could  extract  out  of 
life.  She  said  them  aloud,  shrilly,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  impress  it  upon  the  trees  that  saw  it 
all,  and  the  cold,  unsympathetic  stars  that 
came  out  overhead  in  the  pale  evening  sky  and 
looked  down  on  her  so  unpityingly.  She  felt 
something  warm  and  moist  trickling  over  her 
feet.  It  was  the  life-blood  oozing  from  Wes 
ley  Ford's  side.  She  gave  one  appalled  down 
ward  glance  at — it — that  white,  still  form  there 
that  uttered  no  moan  of  pain,  no  whisper  of 
reproach !  The  snowy  cashmere  shawl  had 
turned  to  a  bright  crimson  shawl.  She  lashed 
the  horse  into  quicker  bounds.  On  he  dashed, 
flinging  white  flecks  of  foam  back  against  his 
heaving  flanks.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  shud 
dered.  If  only  those  tightly  compressed  lips 
turned  up  toward  the  silent  stars  would  open 
and  repeat  those  words  once  more:  "It  was 
an  accident — of  course."  She  wanted  to  hear 
him  say  that  it  was  not  Henry  White  who 
had  done  this  dreadful  thing.  On  through 
the  darkening  woods,  where  the  close-crowd 
ing  roadside  weeds  slapped  her  on  the  cheeks 


19°  BALDY'S  POINT. 

with  damp,  ghostly  fingers ;  out  into  the  open 
road  that  ran  along  the  river  front,  where  it 
grew  lighter  and  she  could  see  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  in  Baldy's  Point  rising  grayly  in  the 
near  distance ;  faster  and  still  faster,  past  the 
long,  whitewashed  fence  of  the  last  plantation, 
before  you  reach  the  town,  where  the  Cherokee 
roses  flung  their  white  sprays  like  spirit  arms 
upward  and  outward  over  the  roadway,  into 
Baldy's  Point,  where  the  lights  were  already 
glimmering  in  some  of  the  windows.  She 
drove  staring  straight  before  her.  She  turned 
aside  mechanically  for  the  few  teams  she 
encountered.  She  saw  without  seeing  how 
their  drivers  all  turned  to  stare  wonderingly 
after  her.  She  noted,  without  caring,  how  the 
man  on  Sellers's  gallery  stood  up  to  look  after 
her  as  she  dashed  past  them,  never  once  draw 
ing  breath  consciously  until  she  found  herself 
in  front  of  her  father's  gate,  and  saw  him  and 
her  mother  and  some  other  people,  she  never 
knew  who,  hurrying  toward  her  with  fright 
ened  faces. 

Then,  relieved  of  her  ghastly  responsibility, 
she  flung  the  reins  up  wildly  and  sprang  from 
the  vehicle  into  her  mother's  arms. 

"It  was  an  accident,"  she  cried,  with  chatter 
ing  teeth,  turning  toward  the  men  who  were 
crowding  about  the  gig.  "Do  you  hear  me? 


BALDY'S  POINT.  191 

An  accident !     He  said  so,"  then  oblivion  came 
mercifully  to  her  relief. 

Before  the  forest  echoes  aroused  by  that 
ringing  shot  had  fallen  asleep  again,  a  man 
stepped  from  behind  the  shelter  of  a  clump  of 
sassafras  bushes  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
shanty.  He  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to 
the  left.  He  stopped  like  a  startled  animal 
when  he  heard  the  roll  of  wheels  and  swift 
clatter  of  the  horse's  feet,  and  stood  listening. 
It  died  away  in  the  distance,  and  he  went 
crashing  through  the  underbrush  again  with 
long,  swinging  steps. 

It  was  the  man  Henry  Robinson,  who  had 
passed  over  the  road  only  that  morning  driving 
an  ox  wagon  upon  whose  creaking  body  all  his 
worldly  possessions  were  piled  high.  His  wife 
and  children  had  walked  sullenly  by  his  side. 
He  had  been  ejected,  legally  and  in  form,  but 
he  recognized  no  man's  right  to  send  him  forth 
into  the  world  to  look  for  another  resting-place 
to  start  afresh,  and  he  had  breathed  dire  threats 
of  revenge  into  Henry  White's  indifferent  ears 
as  he  passed  through  the  toll-gate  that  morning. 

"I  only  done  w'at  I  tol'  'm  I'd  do,"  he  said, 
swaying  his  head  from  side  to  side  like  an  infu 
riated  wild  beast,  as  he  went  crashing  through 
the  undergrowth.  "He  would  have  h'it.  I  gin 


I92  BALDY'S  POINT. 

him  far  warnin',  en  his  own  gun  sarved  me  a 
good  turn.  But  I  gin  him  far  warnin'.  I  tol' 
'im  I'd  do  it." 

He  walked  more  slowly  as  he  neared  the 
shanty.  There  was  no  one  there  to  molest,  but 
a  wave  of  superstitions  terror  swept  over  him 
at  the  idea  of  having  to  place  Henry's  gun 
back  in  the  shanty  where  he  had  stolen  it  the 
night  before.  There  must  be  nothing  found 
about  him  that  could  fasten  this  night's  work 
on  him.  He  had  lain  cramped  and  hidden 
behind  the  sassafras  bushes  since  noon  waiting 
for  the  moment  of  his  revenge;  had  even 
fallen  into  a  deep,  sluggish  slumber  that  had 
been  broken  only  at  the  moment  that  Wesley 
Ford  had  stooped  to  pick  up  the  shawl  from 
the  roadside.  He  had  planned  his  attack  with 
cool  diabolism.  When  Henry  should  have 
locked  the  gate  and  started  homeward,  nothing 
would  be  easier  than  to  shoot  him  in  the  back, 
replace  the  gun  in  the  shanty,  and  rejoin  his 
family,  whom  he  had  left  at  the  next  planta 
tion.  At  the  first  moment  of  awakening  he 
experienced  a  little  surprise  at  seeing  his  victim 
so  immediately  opposite  his  hiding-place.  He 
leered  upon  the  stooping  man  vindictively. 
"Huntin'  for  yo'  gun,  is  you?  Well,  den,  tek 
it."  And,  rising  to  his  knees,  he  had  sent  that 
ringing  shot  home  with  fatal  aim. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  193 

Henry  White,  sitting  on  the  cypress  block 
that  served  him  for  a  chair  when  at  work  on 
his  shingles,  with  his  head  bowed  on  the  rude 
table  before  him,  heard  the  shot  without  mov 
ing  a  muscle.  It  was  the  idle  pastime  of  every 
idler  in  the  country  now  to  shoot  in  season  and 
out  of  season  at  anything  or  nothing.  Every 
negro  carried  his  gun,  and  every  gun  was  in 
active,  bootless  use. 

He  found  it  almost  impossible  this  night  to 
go  home  and  face  his  mother.  She  had  such  a 
persistent  way  of  trying  to  ferret  out  the  causes 
for  every  shade  of  pallor  in  his  cheeks,  or 
unusual  display  of  reticence  on  his  part.  And 
to-night  of  all  nights  it  would  be  hard  to  listen, 
as  he  surely  must,  to  every  particular  of  Henry 
Robinson's  exodus.  To-night  of  all  nights  it 
would  be  hard  to  ignore  the  littleness  and  the 
sordidness  of  this  new  life  of  his.  He  could 
not  go  to  meet  it. 

The  moon  came  to  the  aid  of  the  stars  pres 
ently,  and  did  her  very  best  to  illumine  the 
spot  under  the  sycamore  where  he  sat  brooding 
sullenly.  It  was  a  very  feeble  illumination, 
however — scarcely  more  than  enough  to  out 
line  his  drooping  form  to  the  man  who,  after 
softly  dropping  the  gun  inside  the  shanty 
through  the  window,  stole  as  noiselessly  as  a 
panther  around  toward  the  sycamore,  meaning 


I92  BALDY'S  POINT. 

him  far  warnin',  en  his  own  gun  sarved  me  a 
good  turn.  But  I  gin  him  far  warnin'.  I  tol' 
'im  I'd  do  it." 

He  walked  more  slowly  as  he  neared  the 
shanty.  There  was  no  one  there  to  molest,  but 
a  wave  of  superstitions  terror  swept  over  him 
at  the  idea  of  having  to  place  Henry's  gun 
back  in  the  shanty  where  he  had  stolen  it  the 
night  before.  There  must  be  nothing  found 
about  him  that  could  fasten  this  night's  work 
on  him.  He  had  lain  cramped  and  hidden 
behind  the  sassafras  bushes  since  noon  waiting 
for  the  moment  of  his  revenge;  had  even 
fallen  into  a  deep,  sluggish  slumber  that  had 
been  broken  only  at  the  moment  that  Wesley 
Ford  had  stooped  to  pick  up  the  shawl  from 
the  roadside.  He  had  planned  his  attack  with 
cool  diabolism.  When  Henry  should  have 
locked  the  gate  and  started  homeward,  nothing 
would  be  easier  than  to  shoot  him  in  the  back, 
replace  the  gun  in  the  shanty,  and  rejoin  his 
family,  whom  he  had  left  at  the  next  planta 
tion.  At  the  first  moment  of  awakening  he 
experienced  a  little  surprise  at  seeing  his  victim 
so  immediately  opposite  his  hiding-place.  He 
leered  upon  the  stooping  man  vindictively. 
"Huntin'  for  yo' gun,  is  you?  Well,  den,  tek 
it."  And,  rising  to  his  knees,  he  had  sent  that 
ringing  shot  home  with  fatal  aim. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  193 

Henry  White,  sitting  on  the  cypress  block 
that  served  him  for  a  chair  when  at  work  on 
his  shingles,  with  his  head  bowed  on  the  rude 
table  before  him,  heard  the  shot  without  mov 
ing  a  muscle.  It  was  the  idle  pastime  of  every 
idler  in  the  country  now  to  shoot  in  season  and 
out  of  season  at  anything  or  nothing.  Every 
negro  carried  his  gun,  and  every  gun  was  in 
active,  bootless  use. 

He  found  it  almost  impossible  this  night  to 
go  home  and  face  his  mother.  She  had  such  a 
persistent  way  of  trying  to  ferret  out  the  causes 
for  every  shade  of  pallor  in  his  cheeks,  or 
unusual  display  of  reticence  on  his  part.  And 
to-night  of  all  nights  it  would  be  hard  to  listen, 
as  he  surely  must,  to  every  particular  of  Henry 
Robinson's  exodus.  To-night  of  all  nights  it 
would  be  hard  to  ignore  the  littleness  and  the 
sordidness  of  this  new  life  of  his.  He  could 
not  go  to  meet  it. 

The  moon  came  to  the  aid  of  the  stars  pres 
ently,  and  did  her  very  best  to  illumine  the 
spot  under  the  sycamore  where  he  sat  brooding 
sullenly.  It  was  a  very  feeble  illumination, 
however — scarcely  more  than  enough  to  out 
line  his  drooping  form  to  the  man  who,  after 
softly  dropping  the  gun  inside  the  shanty 
through  the  window,  stole  as  noiselessly  as  a 
panther  around  toward  the  sycamore,  meaning 


194  BALDY'S  POINT. 

to  take  a  short  cut  across  the  fields  back  to  his 
family.  He  could  not  go  by  way  of  the  plank 
road.  //  was  lying  there,  stark  and  still ! 

The  night  winds  stirred  the  branches  of  the 
big  sycamore  with  a  soft  rustle  like  the  sweep 
of  spirits'  wings;  they  parted  to  let  a  broad 
beam  of  pallid  light  rest  upon  the  bared  head 
and  folded  arms  of  the  tired  young  wrestler 
with  Fate  beneath  them.  The  negro  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot.  His  heavy  under-jaw  fell 
like  the  jaw  of  a  dead  man.  His  huge  frame 
trembled.  He  staggered  backward,  voiceless 
from  terror,  turned,  and,  with  never  a  look  be 
hind,  fled,  like  one  pursued,  from  the  ghost  of 
his  victim. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

RUMOR  ON  WINGS. 

/^RUESOME  whispers  were  afloat  in  the  air 
\J  about  Baldy's  Point.  Surely  the  night 
winds  and  the  bats  and  the  hideous  black- 
winged,  gray-hooded  birds  of  prey  that  perched 
upon  the  tall  gate-posts  and  cast  sinister 
glances  from  their  red-lidded  eyes  down  upon 
Henry  White,  as  he  listlessly  turned  the  key  in 
the  padlock  and  took  his  heavy  way  homeward 
that  night,  must  have  conspired  together  to 
carry  the  news  of  the  Provost's  mishap  into 
every  household.  How  else,  in  the  absence  of 
telephone  or  telegraph  or  any  of  the  modern 
contrivances  for  scattering  the  seeds  of  weal  or 
woe,  could  Amy  Wilson  have  gotten  hold  of 
it  before  she  slept  that  night? 

It,  that  gruesome  whisper  which  meant  so 
much  more  to  her  than  it  could  possibly  mean 
to  anybody  else,  came  to  her  after  it  had  taken 
on  huge  dimensions:  "The  Provost  Marshal 
had  been  shot."  "He  had  been  shot  near  the 
shanty  by  the  toll-gate."  "Shot  by  a  ball  from 
a  Winchester  rifle." 


I96  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"No  one  had  any  provocation  to  shoot  the 
Provost  but — Henry  White."  "The  Provost 
had  driven  past  the  shanty  with  the  gate 
keeper's  old  sweetheart  by  his  side."  "Henry 
White  was  the  would-be  assassin."  The  chain 
of  evidence  was  absolutely  without  a  missing 
link.  And  as  each  strong,  perfect  link  was 
forced  in  upon  her  consideration  with  merciless 
disregard  for  her  quivering  nerves,  the  Major's 
daughter  lifted  her  heart  heavenward  in  an 
agony  of  prayer  for  mercy. 

They  had  not  meant  her  to  hear  it  at  all, 
those  two  men  who  told  it  in  whispers  to  each 
other  that  night  in  the  Major's  garden.  It 
came  to  her  as  a  dramatic  finale  to  a  day  full 
of  unusual  excitement  and  usual  discomfort. 

When  she  had  turned  indoors  that  afternoon, 
after  standing  on  the  step  of  the  Provost's  vil 
lage-cart  to  give  Fanny  one  more  kiss  and  to 
assure  the  Provost,  for  the  third  time  at 
least,  that  she  would  "talk  to  papa  about 
Cousin  Ann  just  as  soon  as  his  fever  left  him 
and  his  poor  dear  head  was  clear  enough  for  a 
business  talk,"  it  was  with  an  uncomfortable 
sense  of  being  terribly  behindhand  with  a  lot 
of  work  that  must  be  finished  before  she  slept. 

The  Major's  bedroom  opened  on  to  the  front 
gallery.  She  peeped  through  its  bowed  shut 
ters  to  see  if  the  noise  of  the  wheels  and  voices 


BALDY'S  POINT.  197 

had  disturbed  him.  He  was  still  lying  with  his 
face  turned  toward  the  wall.  That  last  dose  of 
morphia  had  stood  her  in  good  stead.  What  if 
he  should  have  wakened  while  Fanny  and  the 
Provost  were  there,  and  she  have  had  to 
explain  matters,  at  the  risk  of  one  of  his  awful 
outbreaks? 

If  now  he'd  only  sleep  on  one  little  hour 
longer!  She  never  dared  bring  her  work  into 
his  presence.  His  wrath  would  have  been  ter 
rible,  too  terrible  to  be  evoked  carelessly.  So 
to  the  little  gallery  room  that  was  the  hottest 
place  in  summer  and  the  very  coldest  in  winter 
she  confined  every  detail  of  the  dressmaking 
business,  that  was  really  growing  to  respectable 
dimension.  Flushed  and  hurried,  she  opened 
its  door  now. 

"You's  got  back,  is  you?  I'se  ben  stan'in' 
yhere  nigh  on  to  haf  'n  hour  to  see  ef  my  coat's 
gittin  done.  Marfy  Ann  ax  me  to  tol'  you  she's 
spectin'  uv  hern  too  t'night.  We  both  'lows  to 
w'ar  em  t'marrer.  Seems  lak  w'ite  folks  is 
mouty  'liberate  these  days.  En  day  ain'  over 
p'tickler  'bout  der  premiss  nuther." 

"I've  been  interrupted  by  company  to-day, 
Cynthy,"  said  Amy,  threading  a  needle  hastily, 
"but  I  promised  you  and  Martha  both  that  you 
should  have  your  dresses,  and  I  intend  to 
finish  them  before  I  go  to  bed  to-night.  Could 


I98  BALDY'S  POINT. 

you  send  Launce  up  for  them,  say  about  ten 
o'clock?" 

"I  s'pose  I  could,"  her  dusky  patroness  said, 
reflectively.  "Launce  ain't  always  to  be 
'pended  on,  en  you  promiss  me  en  Sis'  Marfy 
Ann  that  dem  coats  should  be  finish  dis 
mawnin*.  Mawnin'  is  mawnin',  en  night  is 
night." 

"I  didn't  know  then  that  papa  was  going  to 
be  sick,  nor  that  company  would  be  here," 
Amy  answered,  with  patient  dignity,  not  at 
tempting  to  refute  the  logic  of  disappointed 
vanity.  She  could  not  afford  to  give  offense  to 
this  customer.  She  was  the  leader  of  fashion 
at  the  quarters,  and  was  profitable  if  not  pleas 
ant.  She  had  taken  up  the  brilliant  organdy, 
whose  much  beflounced  draperies  were  destined 
to  add  materially  to  Sis'  Cynthy's  rotundity, 
and  was  sewing  with  bent  back  and  intent  eyes. 
She  would  rather  "Sis  Cynthy"  should  go  back 
to  the  quarters  and  let  her  finish  her  task  with 
out  supervision. 

"You  gwine  put  tapes  in  the  inside  fer  a  tie 
back." 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"En  a  tail.     I  al'ays  laks  a  tail  to  my  coats." 

"There's  plenty  of  train." 

"You  couldn'  'low  me  to  try  de  bes1  on  w'ile 
I'm  here,  could  you  now,  honey?  Yer  see,  ef 


SALDY'S  POINT.  199 

h'it  don't  fit  snug  I  am'  gwine  be  satisfy,  dat's 
all  'bout  it.  En  my  ole  man,  he  say,  ef  he's 
willin'  t'  pay  for  havin'  my  coats  made  'cord- 
in'  to  style,  he  wants  to  see  de  style,  dat's  all 
'bout  it." 

"  I  think  you  will  like  it,  Aunt  Cynthy, 
but—" 

"Don'  'Aunt'  me;  I  ain'  none  er  y'  aunt 
ner  yer  uncle  nuther.  I'se  jus'  Mis'  Cynthy 
Drake,  dat's  all  about  it." 

Amy  succeeded  in  convincing  Mrs.  Cynthy 
Drake  that  much  precious  time  would  be  con 
sumed  in  trying  on  the  basque  of  the  organdy, 
and  she  yielded  the  point,  substituting  therefor 
much  crude  advice  concerning  its  construction. 

'"Member,  now,"  she  said  finally,  turning 
back  on  the  threshold  to  deliver  her  parting 
injunction,  "me  an'  Sis'  Marfy  Ann  'spects  to 
w'ar  our  new  coats  t'morrer.  A  bargain's  a 
bargain.  I  gwine  send  dat  boy  Launce  up  for' 
em  'twix'  nine  and  ten,  'en  ef  he  don'  fotch  em 
bofe  back  wid  'im — bofe,  min'  you — well,  den 
you  knocks  a  doller  off.  Dat's  all  about  it." 

"You  shall  have  them,  if  I  bring  them  up 
myself,"  Amy  said  desperately,  trembling  with 
the  indignation  she  dare  not  give  vent  to. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  endure.  With 
the  commission  merchants  supplying  only  the 
bare  necessities  of  plantation  life,  where  was 


200  BALDY'S  POINT. 

anything  to  come  from  but  from  her  own 
labor,  and  what  avenue  was  open  to  her  but 
just  this  one,  bare  and  narrow  and  distasteful 
as  it  was? 

"What  would  poor  papa  do  without  his 
papers  and  his  pipes  and  his  little  necessary 
indulgences?"  she  muttered,  wiping  away  a  few 
tears  of  wrath  that  clouded  her  vision  and 
dropped  upon  a  big  pink  peony  on  Sis 
Cynthy's  organdy  overskirt.  She  always  re 
minded  herself  of  the  Major's  forlorn  helpless 
ness  when  outraged  pride  threatened  to  get  the 
better  of  her.  But  just  now  there  was  one 
strand  of  a  brighter  hue  running  through  the 
dark  woof  of  her  days.  It  was  Cousin  Ann. 
Things  would  work  more  smoothly  if  they 
could  take  the  Provost  and  his  wife  to  board, 
and  what  a  personal  comforter  Cousin  Ann 
would  be  to  her,  provided  always  the  years  had 
not  marred  her  nor  altered  her  sweet  spirit ! 
She  was  threading  her  needle  for  the  third  time 
only  since  Mrs.  Drake  had  swept  majestically 
out  of  the  gallery  room,  when  a  dictatorial 
thump,  thump,  thump,  brought  her  to  her  feet 
once  more  with  an  irrepressible  sigh. 

It  was  the  Major's  cane  that  made  the  three 
thumps  which  was  the  established  signal  be 
tween  them.  He  wanted  her.  She  glanced 
carefully  over  her  dress  to  see  that  no  tell-tale 


BALDY'S  POINT.  2OI 

scraps  were  cleaving  to  it,  and  stuck  all  the  pins 
and  needles  that  garnished  her  bosom  back  in 
the  cushion. 

"Hanged  if  I  don't  believe  you  spend  your 
life  pottering  around  those  rose-bushes,  Amy ! 
If  we  could  eat  or  wear  roses  I'd  see  some 
sense  in  it." 

Thus  the  Major  testily,  as  Amy  presented 
herself,  carelessly  stripping  the  wrinkled  under- 
leaves  off  a  full-blown  moss-rose.  It  was  one 
of  hef  pretty  fictions.  She  was  always  "just 
in  from  the  garden,"  or  else  had  run  out  to 
the  poultry  yard  to  see  the  young  chickens,  or 
something  airy  and  pleasant  and  easy. 

"You've  had  such  a  nice  morning!"  she  said 
soothingly,  putting  the  moss-rose  in  a  wine 
glass  and  locating  it  where  he  could  see  it  with 
out  even  troubling  to  turn  his  head. 

"Oh!  I  have,  have  I?  Yes,  I  quite  enjoy 
being  drugged  to  sleep  and  laid  on  the  bed  like 
a  dead  man.  The  sensation  is  enjoyable  in  the 
extreme.  What  time  of  day  is  it?" 

"Nearly  supper  time;  and  Aunt  Melindy 
promised  to  have  your  chicken  soup  ready  the 
minute  you  waked  up." 

"Blast  the  chicken  soup,  and  Aunt  Melindy 
too!  Do  you  suppose  because  I've  had  a 
leg  shot  off  I'm  going  to  live  on  slops  all  the 
rest  of  my  life?  Tell  Melindy  to  bring  me  a 


202  JBALDY'S  POINT. 

broiled  chicken  and  some  baked  potatoes  and 
hot  biscuit  and  coffee.  When  you  get  me 
down  to  chicken  broth  you  can  take  my  head 
for  a  football !" 

Amy  went  silently  out  to  give  this  revised 
order  for  supper.  She  knew  Melindy  would 
rebel ;  but  there  was  that  jet  collar  she'd  been 
trying  to  coax  from  her  so  long — that  would 
bring  her  to  terms.  She  wondered  drearily  if 
it  would  be  possible  now  to  finish  the  two 
dresses  waiting  there  in  the  gallery  room. 
Perhaps  he  would  go  to  sleep  again  after  a 
good  supper. 

She  gave  her  order,  placated  the  cook,  and 
returned  to  the  Major's  room  with  no  outward 
sign  of  the  inward  turmoil  that  was  making  her 
dubious  just  then  about  the  desirability  of 
existence  at  all.  Her  sweet  face  wore  a  pathet 
ically  patient  look  always  of  late,  but  to-night 
it  was  paler  than  usual. 

"Come  here,  my  daughter." 

The  old  "war-horse,"  as  the  people  about 
Baldy's  Point  called  Major  Wilson,  stretched 
out  a  brown,  sinewy  hand  toward  her  as  she 
re-entered  the  room.  She  was  not  unused 
to  these  sudden  changes  in  the  domestic 
barometer. 

"I'm  a  brute,  child,  ever  to  say  a  harsh  word 
in  your  hearing,  my  little  saint,  my  lily-pure 


SALDY'S  POINT.  203 

Amy ;  but  you  don't  know  what  it  is,  child,  to 
have  all  the  strength  and  ambition  and  activity 
of  your  best  days  seething  in  your  heart  and 
brain,  and  be  clogged  with  a  dead  body. 
How  much  better  for  you  and  for  me  both 
if  that  bullet  had  hit  my  heart  instead  of  my 
legs!" 

Then  she  had  to  turn  comforter;  had  to 
assure  him  how  desolate  life  would  be  to  her 
without  him ;  had  to  cheer  him  and  scold  him 
and  lift  him  up  out  of  the  depths,  and  give  of 
her  vitality  to  supply  all  that  was  lacking  to 
him,  and  but  one  Eye  saw  it  all.  That  eye 
was  not  the  Major's. 

He  grew  more  placid  after  Melindy  had 
brought  his  supper  in,  and  Amy  had  poured 
out  the  coffee  for  him,  and  mashed  his  potatoes 
and  seasoned  them  just  to  his  taste.  And  by 
the  time  he  got  to  his  pipe  after  supper,  and 
Amy  brought  the  backgammon  board  and 
played  just  badly  enough  to  give  him  every 
game,  he  grew  absolutely  cheerful.  He  played 
and  smoked  himself  into  a  slumberous  condition 
about  eight  o'clock;  and  Amy  felt  really 
wicked  to  think  she  could  take  satisfaction  in 
such  a  direction. 

He  smiled  benignantly  up  into  her  face  as 
she  stooped  to  give  him  a  good-night  kiss,  and 
laid  fatherly  injunctions  on  her. 


204  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Now,  then,  straight  to  bed,  daughter;  no 
star-gazing,  no  novel-reading." 

"No  star-gazing,  no  novel-reading,  father;  I 
promise." 

At  last  she  was  at  liberty  (?).  In  and  out  of 
the  pink  peonies,  across  great  green  garlands 
of  muslin  vines,  the  needle  flew  and  the  scissors 
snipped.  It  was  hot  there  in  the  little  gallery 
room,  and  the  lighted  lamp  attracted  myriad 
moths  and  mosquitoes  and  bugs.  The  moths 
fluttered  with  fatal  persistence  about  the  flame 
of  the  lamp,  until,  scorched  and  shriveled,  they 
ceased  to  struggle,  and  lay  motionless  upon  the 
glass  chimney,  helping  to  obscure  the  light. 
Great  shiny  brown  bugs  came  through  the 
window  with  a  buzz,  thumping  and  bumping 
blindly  about  the  low  ceiling  and  narrow  walls 
until  they  fell  into  the  great  coils  of  her  hair  or 
inside  her  collar,  and  made  her  start  with  a 
nervous  tremor.  Tiny  insects,  small  and  gray  as 
the  sands  of  the  sea,  swarmed  in  clouds  above  her 
bent  head  and  settled  in  drifts  upon  the  table 
about  the  lamp.  A  bat  lost  his  way,  and,  flut 
tering  in  through  the  window,  circled  around 
and  about  the  lamp  that  was  growing  dimmer 
every  second  from  its  incrustation  of  insects 
and  moths.  But  her  promise  was  given,  and, 
great  as  her  physical  horror  of  a  bat  had  always 
been,  her  moral  distaste  for  a  broken  promise 


£ALDY'S  POINT.  205 

was  still  greater.  She  unpinned  her  collar  and 
loosened  her  heavy  hair.  It  was  hot,  and  she 
was  tired.  But  she  never  stopped  once  until, 
neatly  folded  and  pinned  up  in  two  towels, 
Mrs.  Drake's  and  "Sis'  Marfy  Ann's"  dresses 
lay  on  the  bed  ready  for  delivery.  The  clock 
struck  half-past  nine.  Launce  would  be  here 
directly.  She  must  sit  up  for  him.  She  moved 
from  her  place  by  the  work-table,  where  the 
moths  and  the  bugs  were  cremating  themselves 
by  thousands,  to  a  rocking-chair  close  by  the 
window.  She  leaned  her'  head  against  the 
window-sill.  How  it  ached,  and  how  tired 
she  was !  The  large  back  yard  was  enveloped 
in  gloom.  The  kitchen  lay  like  a  block  of 
wood,  windowless  and  doorless,  under  the  star 
less  sky.  She  heard  an  owl  hoot  in  the  woods 
that  came  pretty  close  up  to  the  yard  fence  on 
one  side,  and  another  one  answered  it.  A  soft 
splash  in  the  water  of  the  slough  down  there 
at  the  foot  of  the  garden  was  followed  by  the 
trombone  of  a  bullfrog.  She  wished  Launce 
would  come,  so  that  she  could  lock  up  the 
gallery  room  and  go  to  her  own  sleeping-room, 
next  to  the  Major's.  She  was  afaid  she  would 
sleep  so  heavily  that  she  might  fail  to  hear  him 
if  he  was  restless  in  the  night. 

She   must    have  been    very   tired.     She   sat 
there   with    folded    hands   and  head  resting  on 


206  BALDY'S  POINT. 

the  window-sill  waiting  for  Launce  until —  She 
sat  bolt  upright.  She  was  in  total  darkness. 
The  clock  was  striking  eleven.  She  sprang  up 
and  lighted  a  match.  The  lamp  stood  there,  an 
evil-smelling  thing,  choked  to  death  by  the  in 
sects.  The  towels  were  still  on  the  bed. 
Launce  must  have  come  and  found  her  asleep. 
That  would  never  do.  Cynthy's  wrath  was 
something  not  to  be  encountered  lightly.  She 
had  said  she  would  deliver  the  dresses  herself 
rather  than  disappoint  her  patrons,  without 
meaning  in  the  least  so  to  demean  herself. 
But  as  things  had  turned  out — well,  fortunately 
Cynthy's  cabin  was  very  close  at  hand.  The 
people  up  in  the  quarters  never  went  to  bed 
until  long  after  midnight;  she  had  but  to  run 
down  through  the  garden  and  call  for  Launce  to 
come  to  the  fence  and  get  the  bundles.  Rain 
had  begun  to  fall  since  she  fell  asleep.  She 
could  hear  the  soft  patter  of  it  on  the  leaves 
and  grass  out  there  in  the  invisible  yard.  She 
slipped  into  rubbers  and  put  on  her  waterproof, 
more  for  the  protection  of  Mrs.  Drake's  and 
Sis'  Marfy  Ann's  finery  than  for  her  own.  She 
gathered  the  towels  under  the  waterproof  and 
stole  from  the  house  as  secretly  and  softly  as  if 
she  were  about  to  decamp  with  the  pink- 
peonied  organdy  and  leave  Sis'  Cynthy  in  the 
lurch. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  207 

Her  rubber  slippers  on  the  rain-soaked  ground 
made  her  progress  absolutely  noiseless.  She 
knew  every  path  in  the  garden  as  well  in  that 
pitchy  darkness  as  in  the  most  dazzling  sun 
light.  She  would  go  through  the  bean  arbor — 
that  was  the  shortest  way  to  Cynthy's  cabin. 
The  lima  beans  grew  in  thick  masses  all  over 
the  trellis-work  of  the  arbor;  the  darkness  was 
its  densest  in  there  under  the  dripping  vines. 
She  stopped  involuntarily ;  then  crouched 
breathlessly.  She  heard  voices  in  there  under 
the  lima  beans.  Men's  voices !  Evidently  they 
were  talking  on  some  subject  that  filled  them 
with  suppressed  excitement.  She  sank  down 
on  her  knees  among  the  wet  roots  of  the  beans 
to  listen,  with  every  sense  alert.  Those  were 
the  days  when  men  and  women  needed  to  be 
alert,  if  never  before. 

"Yes,  sir" — surely  that  was  Launce's  voice ; 
doubtless  Cynthy  had  sent  him,  but  he'd  never 
gotten  any  farther  than  this.  "Shot  him ! 
Shot  him  lak  a  dog.  The  Provy,  he  were 
riding  'long  peaceble-lak  wid  the  Jedge's 
daughter;  you  know  him — I  mean  White  and 
her  use  t'  be  sweethearts — en,  sir,  he  ups  en 
shoots  him  in  de  back  wid  that  'er  new  sorter 
rifle  er  his'n,  en  then  puts  de  rifle  back  in  de 
shanty  en  walks  off  home  same  es  he  done 
shoot  a  wil'  hog.  But  he  done  wake  up  de 


208  BALDY'S  POINT. 

wrong  man  dis  time.  Henry  Robinson,  him, 
you  know,  White  put  off'n  his  place,  he  sent 
me  out  here  t'  tell  you  he  wants  you,  brer  Dan'l, 
to  meet  him  at  de  Webb  place  'twix'  dis  en 
sundown  t'-morrer.  Henry  jes'  lef  my  cabin 
'fo'  I  start  fer  de  house." 

"What  he  want  wid  me?"  she  heard  Daniel 
ask. 

"What  he  want  wid  you?  He  want  you  t' 
holp  us  settle  wid  Mr.  Henry  White.  He  done 
lord  it  long  'nough  now,  en  we  gwine  mek  him 
onderstan'  dis  is  a  free  country  at  las'." 

"W'at  you  gwine  do  wid  him?" 

Launce  laughed.  It  was  not  a  mirthful 
sound.  "Come  en  see.  I  promise  you  one 
thing:  he  ain'  likely  t'  shoot  no  mo'  Winchister 
rifles  at  no  mo'  Provys  arter  we  get  frew  wid 
him." 

"Is  you  be'n  to  Briarwoods?"  she  heard 
Daniel  ask,  and  Launce  answered  promptly : 

"No,  we's  'fraid  to  trus'  de  news  dat  fur.  We 
don'  wan'  Cap  Van  Dorn  to  git  to  nosin'  roun'. 
We  gwine  mek  quick  work  en  shu'  work  ob  dis 
job,  you  yhere  me,  Dan'l." 

Amy  had  heard  him,  if  Daniel  had  not.     She 

rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  making  no  more  noise 

than  some  timid  wild  thing  rustling  the  leaves. 

Cynthy's  wrath  had  sunk  into  absolute  insig- 

..nificance.     What  should  she  do?    Who  should 


BALDY'S  POINT,  209 

she  go  to?  Had  Henry  White  done  this  base 
thing?  Oh!  what  a  black,  black  world  this  was 
getting  to  be !  Who  would  show  her  any 
light?  Who  would  guide  her  through  this  be 
wildering  labyrinth?  She  never  knew  how  she 
got  back  to  the  house ;  how  she  prepared  her 
tired  body  for  rest ;  how  or  when  she  finally 
flung  herself  down  for  a  few  hours'  rest.  She 
was  conscious  of  but  one  longing,  and  that  re 
solved  itself  into  one  determination.  As  soon 
as  the  first  streak  of  daylight  came,  she  would 
saddle  her  horse  and  gallop  over  to  Cap  Van 
Dorn's.  Cap  would  know  what  to  do. 


w 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

NELLIE   MAKES  A  NEW  FRIEND. 

HO  can  minister  to  a  mind  diseased? 
Who  will  undertake  to  trace  its  workings 
intelligently,  to  satisfy  its  longings,  to  calm  its 
restlessness,  or  to  limit  its  desires? 

It  was  with  a  growing  sense  of  his  own  inade 
quacy  to  such  an  undertaking  that  Cap  Van 
Dorn  kept  his  tender  watch  and  ward  over  poor 
Nellie  Hall.  He  was  quite  sure  that  neither  he 
nor  Mammy  would  knowingly  leave  undone 
anything  that  could  make  her  comfortable  or 
happy,  but  perhaps  they  were  bungling.  How 
he  wished  he  could  take  counsel  of  some  sweet, 
wise  woman !  Such  a  woman  as  Amy  Wilson, 
for  instance.  Amy,  gentle,  dignified,  serene, 
always  rose  before  him  when  he  thought  of  his 
own  need  for  a  counselor.  Very  often  of  late, 
when  he  came  in  from  the  field,  Mammy  would 
tell  him  that  "the  child  had  been  frettin',  and 
she  couldn't  pacify  her  no  way."  And  there 
was  a  new  look  of  wistful  longing  in  "the 
child's"  beautiful  eyes  that  quite  perplexed 
him. 

210 


BALDY'S  POINT.  211 

"We  don't  understand  her,  Mammy,"  he 
would  say,  distressedly ;  "she's  getting  beyond 
us,  I'm  afraid."  And  Mammy  would  assent 
with  a  sigh.  What  else  but  assent  had  Mammy 
ever  given  to  her  "w'ite  folks"?  He  began  to 
look  forward  anxiously  to  the  taking  off  of  this 
the  first  crop  he  had  planted  since  the  war. 
As  soon  as  it  was  shipped,  and  he  could  draw 
on  his  commission  merchants  for  a  little  money, 
he  would  take  Nellie  to  an  asylum.  He  wished 
he  could  advise  with  somebody  about  it.  He 
wanted  she  should  have  the  very  best. 

They  would  indeed  have  thought  Nellie  was 
"getting  beyond  them"  if  either  of  them,  he  or 
Mammy,  had  been  on  the  alert  the  morning 
after  this  talk  about  her ;  but  Mammy  was  in 
the  kitchen,  at  the  remote  end  of  the  big  back 
yard,  and  Cap  was  sound  asleep  when  she  came 
out  of  the  room,  walking  very  rapidly,  tying 
the  broad  muslin  strings  of  a  big  garden  hat 
under  her  chin  as  she  walked.  Cap's  coat  was 
hanging  on  the  hat-rack  in  the  hall.  In  the 
free-and-easy  life  of  the  plantation  his  coat  was 
donned  and  doffed  about  as  regularly  as  his  hat. 
Who  can  tell  how  she  had  worked  herself  up  to 
this  pitch  of  independent  action?  or  why  she 
craved  the  larger  liberty  of  the  fields  and  woods? 
She  slipped  her  hand  promptly  into  the  right 
pocket  and  brought  out  the  key  to  the  gate. 


212  £ALDY'S  POINT. 

With  one  furtive  glance  over  her  shoulder  in 
the  direction  of  the  kitchen,  and  another  to 
ward  Cap's  closed  door,  she  almost  ran  down 
the  brick  walk,  between  the  rows  of  Chinese 
privet,  and  fitted  the  key  into  the  lock  with 
fingers  trembling  from  nervous  excitement. 

"The  blackberries  are  ripe,"  she  said  with  a 
little  exultant  laugh  when  she  found  herself 
outside  the  tall  fence,  for  what  must  have 
seemed,  to  her  disordered  fancy,  the  first 
time  in  her  life.  Only  for  a  moment  she  stood 
irresolute,  glancing  now  toward  the  quarter  lot 
where  the  blue  smoke  was  curling  skyward  from 
few  chimneys  only,  then  toward  the  dense 
green  woodland  growth  that  flanked  Briarwood 
on  the  south.  "The  blackberries  are  ripe,"  she 
repeated  gleefully,  and,  leaving  the  gate  yawn 
ing  wide  open  behind  her,  she  sped  away  in 
that  direction  like  some  fleet-footed  wild  thing 
returning  to  its  native  copse. 

The  ground  was  wet  from  last  night's  rain, 
and  the  dampness  soon  soaked  through  the 
thin  soles  of  her  shoes,  making  her  shiver. 
The  heavy,  black  soil  clung  to  her  feet,  forcing 
her  to  go  more  slowly  and  cautiously  at  each 
step;  but  in  spite  of  these  minor  discomforts, 
every  few  moments  that  little  exultant  laugh 
rang  out  on  the  quiet  morning  air  as  she  re 
peated  with  childish  glee,  "The  blackberries 


BALDY'S  POINT,  213 

are  ripe."  Looking  to  the  right  and  to  the  left 
of  the  brambly  road  for  confirmation  of  this 
assertion,  she  passed  on  out  of  sight  of  the 
house.  Her  crisp  white  muslin  dress  gathered 
defilement  from  the  dewy  bushes  and  the 
sodden  earth.  She  looked  down  on  its  soiled 
hem  with  disgust.  Mammy  prided  herself  on 
keeping  "the  child"  arrayed  like  the  lilies  of 
the  field.  The  briary  branches  of  the  black 
berry  bushes  that  filled  the  fence  corners 
clutched  at  her  sleeves  with  their  sharp  thorns, 
and  held  her  garments  in  a  destructive  embrace. 
A  frivolous  young  sapling  snatched  at  the  big 
bow  on  her  straw  hat,  and  essayed  to  lift  it 
from  her  head  ;  she  only  laughed  with  an  exult 
ant  sense  of  freedom,  and  ran  on  and  on,  fol 
lowing  no  pathway,  slipping  through  openings 
that  scarce  a  rabbit  could  have  penetrated, 
shoving  the  branches  recklessly  aside  with  her 
tender  hands,  uttering  little  moans  and  excla 
mations  when  the  thorns  pierced  them,  but 
joyous,  free,  exultant  with  it  all. 

The  wild  Cherokee  roses  peeped  at  her  from 
their  brambly  fastnesses.  She  took  off  her  hat, 
and,  swinging  it  across  her  arm  by  the  tied 
strings,  she  gathered  great  handfuls  of  them 
and  crushed  them  ruthlessly  into  her  hat  crown. 
The  sweet-fern  trailed  its  pink  blossoms  in  a 
tangle  of  beauty  low  on  the  ground ;  she 


214  BALDY'S  POINT. 

plucked  them  up  energetically,  and  piled  them 
on  top  of  the  roses.  At  every  step  some 
bright-eyed  wild  flower,  refreshed  by  the  rain 
and  the  dew,  lifted  its  head  daintily  for  her  con 
sideration.  She  greeted  them  with  a  shout  of 
welcome  like  old  friends  found  again,  or  gazed 
at  them  a  second  in  mute  absorption  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  place  them  somewhere  within 
the  scenes  of  her  treacherous  memory.  Pres 
ently  her  hat  was  full  to  overflowing;  the 
green  vines  trailed  over  its  brim  and  clung 
about  her  arms.  Vivid  spots  of  flame-color 
bloomed  in  her  belt,  and  at  her  throat  the  pale 
blue  fringe  flower  clustered  thickly.  No 
thought  of  the  alarm  at  the  house,  no  fear  at 
finding  herself  alone  in  the  dense  woods,  no 
consideration  of  heat  or  hunger,  marred  her  ex 
quisite  enjoyment  of  this  new-found  freedom, 
absolute  and  untrammeled.  She  had  made  a 
discovery.  The  world  was  not  a  little  square 
plot  of  grass,  bounded  on  all  sides  by  tall,  ugly 
cypress  slabs.  It  was  a  boundless  world,  a 
world  of  green  trees  and  blue  skies  and  singing 
birds  and  sweet  scents,  and  it  was  her  world, 
all  hers!  She  had  forgotten  all  about  the 
blackberries,  so  many  sweet  scents  and  sounds 
lured  her  on,  on — who  cared  whither?  Not 
she !  Now  to  the  east,  where  she  paused,  en 
tranced,  to  listen  to  the  mocking-birds  who 


BALDY'S  POINT.  215 

were  greeting  the  rising  sun  with  a  grand  burst 
of  melody ;  now,  to  the  west,  where  she  stood 
with  folded  hands  looking  with  childlike  de 
light  at  the  long,  slanting  rays  of  white  light 
that  pierced  the  branches  behind  her  and 
illumined  the  path  before  her;  now  when  she 
caught  the  gleam  of  a  spot  of  brightness  that 
she  must  add  to  her  hoard ;  now  with  a  resolute 
effort  pressing  through  the  thick  undergrowth, 
to  find  herself  again  in  the  commonplace,  ugly 
wagon  road.  Bedraggled,  torn,  scratched,  bare 
headed,  but  with  a  starry  gleam  of  excitement 
in  her  beautiful  eyes  and  a  flush  on  her  pale 
cheeks  that  made  her  lovelier  than  ever,  with  a 
light  spring  she  leaped  across  the  narrow  ditch 
that  bordered  the  wagon  road,  then  with  a  wild 
scream  of  terror  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
stood  as  if  turned  to  stone. 

Simultaneously  with  Nellie's  leap  across 
the  grassy  ditch  Amy  Wilson's  horse  gave  a 
plunge  of  terror  that  almost  unseated  his  rider, 
and  then  began  a  series  of  curvetings  that 
seriously  interfered  with  his  mistress's  inten 
tions  of  getting  to  Briarwood  and  back  home 
before  breakfast.  Even  while  she  leaned  for 
ward  to  soothe  him  with  her  hand  she  was 
gazing  with  indignant  wonder  at  the  apparition 
which  had  caused  his  terror. 

A  beautiful  young  woman,  daintily  clad,  gar- 


2i6  BALDY'S  POINT. 

nished  with  wild  flowers,  straying  about  in  the 
woods  close  to  Briarwood !  This,  then,  was 
the  mystery  of  Cap  Van  Dorn's  life !  A  hot 
blush  of  shame  swept  over  her  pure  face. 
Could  she  even  hold  parley  with  such  a  man? 
The  two  girls  stood  with  gaze  transfixed  :  Amy 
taking  swift  feminine  note  of  the  soft  rounded 
cheeks,  the  glowing  eyes,  and  the  rich  mass  of 
golden  hair  that  helped  make  that  girl  standing 
there,  with  her  arms  full  of  wild  flowers,  so  ex 
quisitely  pretty;  Nellie  mute  from  the  sudden 
terror  of  this  unexpected  encounter,  and  yet 
not  turning  away  from  this  steady  gaze  with 
the  timid  fright  strangers  always  inspired  in 
her.  Instead  she  came  a  step  forward,  lifted 
her  hat  toward  the  girl  in  the  saddle,  and,  with 
a  seraphic  smile,  said  in  her  soft,  plaintive 
voice : 

"You  are  pretty.  I  love  you.  You  may 
have  all  my  flowers.  The  blackberries  are  not 
ripe." 

This  was  the  tableau  that  met  Cap  Van 
Dorn's  amazed  vision  as  he  came  crashing 
through  the  undergrowth  at  that  moment,  and 
jumped  the  ditch  just  where  Nellie  had  jumped 
it.  Mammy  had  given  the  alarm,  and  he  had 
tracked  the  pretty  runaway  by  the  impress  of 
her  little  soles  in  the  heavy  soil. 

"Nellie!" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  217 

There  was  reproach  and  relief  and  anxiety  in 
that  ringing  call  which  came  slightly  in  advance 
of  his  broad  shoulders,  but  no  shame.  Amy's 
quick  ear  noted  that  much  with  relief. 

"And  you,  Miss  Wilson?  Why,  what  a 
strange  rendezvous."  He  said  it  with  a  nerv 
ous  laugh,  simply  because  he  must  say  some 
thing,  and  all  the  possibilities  of  this  encounter 
were  crowding  thick  upon  him. 

"Who  is  she?  I  like  her.  She  is  pretty. 
She  may  have  all  my  flowers."  This  from 
Nellie,  but  Amy  looked  down  upon  them  both 
in  simple  wonderment. 

Then  Cap  spoke  hurriedly,  almost  roughly : 

"Don't  be  afraid  that  accident  has  thrown 
you  into  company  you  would  not  choose  to 
keep,  Miss  Wilson.  The  child  who  is  offering 
you  her  flowers  and  her  adulation  is  one  that 
won't  have  to  change  much  when  she's  taken 
up  to  heaven.  Come,  Nellie ;  you  oughtn't  to 
have  run  away  and  given  poor  Mammy  such  a 
fright." 

But  Amy  addressed  him  with  sudden  imperi- 
ousness. 

"Help  me  down,  Mr.  Van  Dorn,  and  put 
your — your — 

"Friend,"  said  Cap,  with  stout  defiance. 

"Friend,"  Amy  repeated,  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  full  of  candid  trust,  "in  my  saddle. 


2l8  BALDY'S  POINT. 

I  was  going  to  your  house  to  tell  you  of  some 
thing  terrible  that  has  happened ;  but  your — 
she  has  wet  feet  and  does  not  look  strong. 
She  can  ride.  You  can  ride,  can  you  not?" 

"Nellie  is  her  name."  His  voice  was  infi 
nitely  gentle  now.  It  had  all  come  about  so 
suddenly,  so  strangely.  He  knew  that  in  the 
few  moments  the  three  had  been  standing 
there,  this  woman,  whom  he  loved  so  very 
dearly,  had  thought  the  very  worst  thing  possi 
ble  of  him,  and  had  veered  instantaneously  into 
a  remorseful  attitude.  "Nellie's  sweet  face 
did  it,"  he  said  to  himself;  "no  one  could  look 
in  those  eyes  and  believe  harm  of  her." 

"You  can  ride,  Nellie,  can  you  not?"  Amy 
was  leaning  toward  her  from  the  saddle,  now 
looking  at  her  with  friendly  eyes.  It  was  the 
first  woman's  voice,  except  Mammy's,  that  had 
addressed  words  of  kindness  to  her  in  all  the 
years  that  had  come  and  gone  since  her 
mother's  death.  It  affected  the  afflicted  girl  as 
sweet  music  might  have  done.  A  great  tender 
light  came  into  her  eyes,  only  to  be  quenched 
in  a  mist  of  tears.  Her  lips  quivered  for  a 
second,  then  they  were  wreathed  in  smiles. 
Such  pathetic  little  smiles — sadder  than  tears 
by  far. 

Cap  Van  Dorn's  voice  was  husky  as  he  said, 
looking  from  the  sweet  girl-face  over  the  knot 


&ALDY'S  POINT.  2ig 

of  blue  fringe-flowers  up  to  the  one  in  the  sad 
dle  that  was  the  loveliest  on  earth  to  him:  "I 
think  the  Lord  sent  you  to  us  this  morning, 
Miss  Wilson,  and  if  you'll  let  me  put  Nellie  up 
behind  you — I'm  afraid  to  trust  her  on  the 
horse  alone — I'll  walk  alongside  and  tell  you 
all  about  her.  You  needn't  be  afraid.  You 
know  I  would  not  put  anything  close  to  you 
that  an  angel  might  not  come  in  contact  with 
safely." 

Amy  had  no  answer  to  make  to  this.  She 
was  spreading  the  little  square  shawl  that  had 
been  about  her  shoulders  on  the  horse's  back 
for  Nellie's  comfort.  Then  Cap  lifted  the  little 
runaway  into  position  and  showed  her  how  to 
clasp  her  arms  about  Amy's  slim  waist.  For 
one  foolish  second  he  envied  the  child,  who 
clasped  her  arms  about  this  new  friend  with  a 
strange  readiness  for  her,  who  shrank  from 
strangers  with  such  sharp  pain.  Cap  walked 
alongside,  ready  to  succor  Nellie  in  case  of 
need.  "I  feel  so  thankful,"  he  said,  as  the 
little  cavalcade  started  forward,  "that  you've 
taken  some  things  for  granted.  You  haven't 
waited  for  me  to  convince  you  that  it  was  all 
right." 

"Her  face  did  that,  I  think,"  said  Amy,  "and 
I'm  afraid  we've  all  been  rather  unjust  to  you, 
Mr.  Van  Dorn." 


220  BALDY'S  POINT. 

A  little  laugh  from  Cap  made  her  add, 
hastily : 

"But  doubtless  it  has  been  your  own  fault. 
You  have  been  so  defiant." 

"I  love  you.  You  may  have  all  my  flowers, 
and  Queenie  too."  A  soft  cheek  was  laid  on 
Amy's  shoulder,  and  these  words  almost  whis 
pered  into  her  ear. 

"Poor  little  Nellie!"  said  Cap.  "You've 
quite  captured  her,  or  she  never  would  have 
offered  you  Queenie.  That's  her  favorite  doll." 

"Tell  me  all  about  her,"  said  Amy,  in  a  low 
voice;  "that  is,  if  you  dare  with  her  so  close, 
for  I  can  only  ride  to  the  gate.  I  must  be 
back  home  for  breakfast.  I  would  like  to  know 
all  you  are  willing  to  tell." 

In  as  few  words  as  possible  Cap  gave  Nellie's 
history.  He  had  often  planned  to  do  this  very 
thing,  but  never  in  this  hurried  style.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  to  think  strangely  of  this  sud 
den  appearance  of  Amy's.  She  was  a  great 
horsewoman,  and  the  two  plantations  were 
only  a  few  miles  apart.  In  his  wild  delight  at 
having  her  there,  close  to  him,  close  to  poor 
little  Nellie,  he  had  forgotten  entirely  that  she 
said  she  had  something  terrible  to  tell  him. 
She  was  there  with  him.  God  had  sent  her 
direct  to  him.  His  horizon  seemed  expanding, 
the  bright  possibilities  of  his  future  rapidly 


3ALDY1S  POINT.  421 

multiplying.  She  had  listened  to  him  very 
attentively  while  he  had  been  giving  her 
Nellie's  story,  and  when  he  saw  her  press  a 
caressing  hand  upon  the  little  briar-scratched 
ones  that  were  clasped  with  interlocked 
ringers  about  her  waist,  and  heard  that  aud 
ible  "poor  little  Nellie"  fall  so  tenderly  from 
her  lips,  heaven  itself  seemed  opening  before 
him. 

They  had  reached  the  gate  by  this  time,  and 
Mammy  was  standing  there5  stupefied  and  inert 
from  sheer  amazement.  With  a  laugh,  Nellie 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  her,  and  Cap,  lifting 
her  down  gently,  turned  to  offer  the  same 
assistance  to  Amy. 

"No,"  she  said,  drawing  her  breath  quickly, 
"I  am  not  going  to  leave  the  saddle.  Send 
them  in  the  house,  please.  Something  terrible 
has  happened.  Have  you  heard  about  Mr. 
White?" 

(Mammy  was  already  half-way  up  the  walk 
with  Nellie,  whose  wet  feet  excited  her  live 
liest  terror.) 

"No." 

•  The  shining  portals  that  had  seemed  to 
open  before  Cap  Van  Dorn's  longing  eyes 
but  a  second  before  closed  with  a  harsh  grating 
sound.  His  voice  sounded  chilled. 

"He   has   shot   the    Provost    Marshal,"  said 


SALDY'S 


Amy  breathlessly,  "and  to-night  the  negroes 
have  conspired  to  be  revenged  on  him  —  " 

"Good  God!" 

Then  she  told  him  how  she  had  heard  it,  and 
how  it  had  been  kept  from  his  plantation  on 
purpose,  for  fear  he  might  give  his  friend  warn 
ing. 

"We  must  get  him  out  of  the  county,  right 
off." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  only  way.  But  you  are  the 
only  one  who  can  do  anything  with  him." 

"What  in  the  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  how  did 
he  manage  to  get  himself  into  such  an  infernal 
mess." 

"Jealousy." 

"Jealousy?" 

"Yes.  He,  the  Provost,  was  in  a  buggy  with 
Fanny  Ray." 

"And  Henry  White  shot  him  while  he  was 
in  the  buggy  with  Miss  Ray?" 

"Yes,"  said  Amy,  recklessly  giving  her  only 
version  of  the  story. 

"Then  he  is  a  brute,  and  deserves  the  worst 
that  could  befall  him." 

"This  from  you?  I  thought  you  were  his 
friend." 

Cap  ground  a  circle  in  the  hard-beaten  ground 
under  his  feet  with  his  heel,  in  impotent  pro 
test.  This  was  hard  to  stand. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  223 

"I'm  his  friend,"  he  answered  sullenly,  not 
looking  at  her,  but  at  her  horse's  pointed  ears. 
"Enough  of  one,  at  least,  to  haul  him  out  of 
this  mess  if  I  can.  But  there's  Nellie.  I 
daren't  leave  her  in  the  house  alone  at  night 
with  things  stirred  up  ?n  this  way." 

"You  can  trust  her  with  me,  can't  you?" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face  and  let  them 
rest  there.  She  might  be  in  love  with  Henry 
White,  but,  with  all  his  heart  and  soul,  he,  Cap 
Van  Dorn,  the  despised  substitute,  must  for 
ever  adore  her.  She  flushed  to  her  white  tem 
ples  under  that  burning  gaze,  and  went  on  hur 
riedly  : 

"I  think  she  would  be  happy  with  me.  I 
will  go  home  and  tell  papa  all  about  you  and — 
Nellie — and  you  can  bring  her  and  Mammy  over 
later  in  the  day.  Then  you  will  be  free.  And, 
Mr.  Van  Dorn"  — leaning  down  from  the  sad 
dle,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  impulsively — 
"please  say  that  you  forgive  me  all  the  silent 
injustice  I've  heaped  on  your  defenseless  head." 

She  had  drawn  the  glove  from  her  hand.  It 
lay  there  slim  and  white  and  pink-tinted  in  his 
clasp.  Cap  bared  his  head  and  lifted  it  rever 
ently  to  his  lips. 

"Be  a  friend  to  poor  little  Nellie,"  he  said, 
"and  I  will  forgive  you  ten  thousand  times 
over." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

BETSY. 

ONE  reason  why  the  people  in  the  White- 
fields  quarters  were  so  rejoiced  over  the 
ejectment  of  Henry  Robinson  and  his  family 
was  that  Betsy,  his  wife,  was  well  known  to  be 
a  Voodoo  Queen,  and  they  were  all  afraid  of 
her.  In  point  of  fact,  it  was  owing  to  his 
wife's  mysterious  powers  of  revenge  and  pun 
ishment  that  he  had  so  long  pursued  his  iniqui 
tous  courses  with  impunity.  What  satisfac 
tion  would  there  be  in  "lawing"  him  about  a 
stolen  heifer  or  a  misappropriated  shote,  or 
charging  him  with  the  theft  of  their  poultry, 
when  his  wife  was  the  acknowledged  possessor 
of  power  to  shrivel  their  flesh,  consume  their 
bones  with  invisible  fire,  or  to  hasten  the  day 
of  decay  and  corruption  for  them  in  any  other 
shape  her  witch's  fancy  might  give  preference 
to?  Hadn't  Mandy  Wane  found  a  knot  of 
"hoodoo"  feathers  in  her  pillow  the  very  week 
after  she  told  Henry  Robinson  to  his  face  that 
he  had  stolen  her  red  rooster,  and  had  Mandy 
ever  been  free  of  the  face-ache  since?  And 
224 


BALDY'S  POINT.  225 

didn't  evil-looking  bottles,  tightly  stoppered 
with  corn-cobs  (doubtless  they  were  evil-smell 
ing  too,  only  no  one  would  trust  themselves 
close  enough  for  olfactory  tests),  locate  them 
selves,  without  visible  agency,  under  the  front 
steps  of  every  cabin  where  a  grudge  against  the 
Robinson  family  had  been  openly  expressed? 

Henry  himself  stood  more  in  awe  of  his  mate 
than  is  quite  compatible  with  conjugal  felicity, 
and  although  himself  the  beneficiary  of  her 
accredited  standing  with  the  powers  of  evil,  he 
was  never  quite  sure  when  the  atmosphere  of 
his  own  home  might  become  too  heavily  im 
pregnated  with  sulphur  and  brimstone  for  his 
own  personal  comfort.  Betsy  was  a  gaunt 
female,  taller  than  her  lord  by  several  inches. 
Nature  and  art  had  combined  to  give  her  a 
sinister  exterior  that  found  no  correspondence 
in  her  simple  soul.  Her  eyes  were  what  are 
called  "wall  eyes."  So  utterly  and  incurably 
perverted  were  they  that  they  naturally  sug 
gested  the  Evil  Eye.  The  loss  of  one  large  front 
tooth  completed  her  facial  qualifications  for  the 
distinction  that  had  been  thrust  upon  her.  Her 
taste  in  dress  was  a  complete  departure  from 
the  love  of  the  barbaric  that  characterizes  her 
race.  Betsy  affected  black,  and  with  her  scant 
black  alpaca  clinging  closely  to  her  bony  anat 
omy,  and  a  square  of  the  same  material  bound 


226  BALDY'S  POINT. 

about  her  head,  she  was  certainly  an  un 
canny  object  to  behold.  Her  reputation  as  a 
witch  was  her  stock-in-trade,  and  not  even  to 
the  sharer  of  her  life's  woe  or  weal  would  Betsy 
ever  have  acknowledged  her  own  absolute  igno 
rance  of  all  the  charms  and  secrets  of  the  black 
art,  whose  supposed  possession  made  her  such 
a  power  in  the  land. 

It  was  this  ungracious  personality  that  con 
fronted  Henry  Robinson  in  the  gray  of  the 
dawn  that  same  morning.  He  had  been  indus 
triously  engaged  all  night,  careering  from  one 
plantation  to  another,  sowing  the  wind  that 
was  to  result  in  a  whirlwind  of  destruction  for 
Henry  White.  Perhaps  he  had  not  cast  a  single 
thought  backward  at  the  forlorn  cabin  on  the 
Webb  place  where  he  had  unceremoniously 
dumped  Betsy  and  the  children  down,  before 
hurrying  away  to  slake  his  thirst  for  revenge. 
He  had  scarcely  expected  to  find  her  astir  at 
this  very  early  hour  of  the  morning.  All  his 
plans  were  arranged,  and  things  worked 
smoothly  enough  since  the  swift-flying  news 
of  the  Provost's  injuries  had  relieved  him  of 
his  ghost  fright. 

"Dat  was  a  miss  shot,"  he  had  said  to  him 
self,  with  a  gasp  of  astonishment  at  the  turn 
events  had  taken,  then  applied  himself 
promptly  to  telling  the  story  of  finding  Henry 


BALDY'S  POINT.  227 

White's  rifle,  minus  one  cartridge,  lying  in  the 
shanty  that  night.  So  far  nothing  but  horrified 
credulity  had  been  accorded  his  statement. 

He  was  tired  when  the  dawn  came  and  found 
him  approaching  the  tumble-down  cabin  he  had 
taken  possession  of.  All  he  wanted  to  do  now 
was  to  throw  himself  in  the  gallery  there  and 
sleep  away  as  many  of  the  hours  as  possible 
before  the  night  should  come  again,  when  he 
must  assume  the  leadership  of  the  party  that 
was  going  to  "raid"  Whitefields. 

"  What  you  doin'  up  dis  time  uv  day?"  he 
asked,  gruffly,  standing  face  to  face  with  Betsy, 
gaunt  and  solemn,  waiting  for  him  there  on  the 
gallery. 

"I  ain'  tech  a  piller  t'night,  Henry,"  she  said, 
querulously. 

"What  fur  you  don'?  Ain'  de  house  good 
'nough  fer  yer?" 

"Henry"  (she  fastened  him  with  her  erratic 
eyes),  "thar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it.  You  hear  me, 
dar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it." 

"Ain'  no  jestiss  in  what?" 

She  stood  there  with  her  long,  lean  arms 
dropped  listlessly  before  her.  Her  black-tur- 
baned  head  was  silhouetted  against  the  white 
washed  wall  of  the  cabin  behind  her.  She  let 
her  eyes  wander  past  him  as  they  turned  slowly 
in  the  direction  where  Henry  White's  shanty 


228  BALDY'S  POINT. 

lay  beyond  the  trees.  There  was  no  grace,  but 
there  was  a  certain  moral  majesty,  in  her  atti 
tude  far  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the 
trembling  wretch  before  her. 

"Thar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it,  Henry  Robinson, 
an'  evil  days  '11  come  on  you  ef  you  don'  men' 
yo'  ways.  You  done  it  yo'  seff,  Henry,  you 
knows  you  done  it ;  an'  now  you's  aggin'  de 
folks  on  to  hu't  a  w'ite  man  'kase  he  drive 
you  off'n  his  place.  Thar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it, 
Henry  Robinson." 

Her  husband's  knees  trembled  beneath 
him.  He  dropped  heavily  on  a  rickety  bench 
that  stood  on  the  gallery.  He  would  ask  her, 
if  he  could  only  swallow  that  lump  in  his  throat, 
how  she  had  found  out  about  this  thing.  But 
where  was  the  use  of  questioning  a  woman  who 
was  in  league  with  the  devil?  Or  how  could 
he  divine  that  Betsy,  marveling  at  his  sudden 
departure  from  the  cabin  the  day  before,  had  fol 
lowed  in  his  wake  to  see  "what  he  was  up  to." 
She  had  reached  the  spot  just  in  time  to  hear 
that  shot,  and  to  see  Henry  hurrying  toward 
the  shanty  with  the  gun  in  his  hand.  She  had 
not  prearranged  any  dramatic  representation 
of  her  facts.  She  had  simply  meant  to  reason 
with  him,  and  to  tell  him  she  had  heard  of  his 
plan  to  "raid"  the  whites;  but,  seeing  the  light 
of  superstitious  terror  spring  into  his  eyes,  she 


BALDY'S  POINT.  229 

seized  the  reins  of  power  with  no  uncertain 
hand.  Erect,  immovable,  gaunt,  she  looked 
straight  before  her  as  she  said  again : 

"Thar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it,  Henry  Robinson. 
En'  I  sees  the  evil  days  comin'  on  you  ef  you 
don'  ondo  w'at  you's  done.  I  sees  de  flesh 
droppin'  fum  yo'  bones  en  de  strength  goin' 
out'n  you  day  by  day.  I  sees  de  blight  settlin' 
on  yo'  co'n  patch  an'  de  drowf  'sumin'  uv  yo' 
subsince.  I  sees  yo'  chillun  dyin'  uv  de  chol- 
ery  en  de  roof  over  yo'  head  flamin'  up  ag'in 
de  midnight  sky." 

"Shet  up,  Betsy,  fo'  Gawd's  sake !" 

But  Betsy  would  not  "  shut  up,"  and  so  he 
buried  his  huge  head  in  his  trembling  hands 
and  tried  to  exclude  the  voice  of  prophecy. 

"I  sees  you  gittin'  t'  be  a  ol'  man  widout  nuffin 
but  enemies  t'  hate  en  'spise  you.  I  sees  de 
mocksin  snakes  er  crawlin'  en  squirmin*  'bout 
yo'  cabin  flo',  wid  no  Betsy  nor  no  Pete  t'  skeer 
em  'way.  I  sees  you — 

An  undeniable  snore  arrested  the  flow  of  her 
eloquence.  Betsy  was  sharing  the  fate  of  all 
domestic  prophets ;  she  was  without  honor. 
Henry  was  sound  asleep.  The  prophetess 
dropped  into  commonplace  soliloquy  with  ludi 
crous  promptness: 

"Clar'  fo'  goodniss,  ef  I  cyarn  skeer  him  into 
it,  I'll  do  it  my  lone  seff." 


230  BALDY'S  POINT. 

What  Betsy  meant  to  do  her  "lone  seff"  she 
did  not  confide  even  to  the  gray,  still  morning 
air,  but  turned  sullenly  indoors,  and,  returning 
with  a  pillow,  she  nudged  her  husband  into  a 
state  of  sufficient  activity  to  induce  him  to 
stretch  himself  at  full  length  upon  the  bench, 
where  he  was  soon  sleeping  heavily. 

"Now,  stay  dar  tell  I  wants  you  t'  wake  up," 
she  muttered,  looking  down  upon  him  for  a 
second  as  if  she  wanted  to  make  quite  sure,  be 
fore  taking  the  next  step,  that  his  senses  were 
fast  locked  in  slumber. 

He  was  still  sleeping  when,  fully  an  hour  later, 
Betsy,  mounted  on  a  harness-scarred  mule,  upon 
whose  back  she  had  hastily  strapped  Henry's 
own  saddle,  halted  at  the  back  door  of  the 
cabin  to  lay  her  injunctions  on  a  lot  of  sleepy- 
looking  children  that  were  crowding  about  its 
threshold  dumbly  wondering  what  this  matu 
tinal  display  of  energy  on  their  mother's  part 
might  mean: 

"You,  Pete,  ef  yo'  daddy  wake  up  fo'  I  git 
back,  tell'm  der  warn  a  dus'  uv  meal  in  de  house, 
en  I  gone  wid  a  peck  er  sweet  taters  out  to  Sel- 
lersis  to  trade  fur  some.  En  you,  Mandy,  you 
lif  de  lid"  off 'n  de  skillet  on  de  hairth,  en  you'll 
fin'  some  co'n-bread  en  bacon  for  you-alls  brek- 
fus;  en  de  fus'  one  I  heers  on  pesterin'  dat  bowl 


BALDY'S  POINT.  231 

of  sour  milk  in  de  cupboard,  w'en  I  gits  back  I 
skin  'im,  dat  all !" 

She  was  gone;  and  Pete  and  Mandy,  lux 
uriating  in  an  unwonted  sense  of  freedom  from 
parental  restraint,  immediately  proceeded  to 
examine  into  the  condition  of  the  forbidden 
bowl  of  sour  milk. 

"Dar  ain'  no  jestiss  in  it,"  Betsy  said  aloud, 
as  her  mule  shuffled  slowly  along  the  sloppy 
road.  "Henry  won'  never  prosper  tell  he  men' 
he's  ways.  De  Lawd  done  laid  a  'junction  on 
me.  I  'bleege  t'  go." 

It  was  but  a  short  ride  out  to  Baldy's  Point 
from  the  Webb  place.  It  was  still  very  early 
morning  when  she  reached  Sellers's  store. 
Sellers's  new  clerk  was  just  taking  down  the 
heavy  wooden  shutters  when  she  passed  it. 
Her  trading  could  wait.  She'd  get  the  meal 
as  she  came  back.  All  her  aim  now  was  to 
secure  a  private  interview  with  Miss  Fanny  Ray. 

This  was  not  as  easy  as  she  had  at  first  sup 
posed  it  would  be.  She  presented  herself, 
gaunt  and  somber,  in  the  door  of  the  Judge's 
kitchen  with  such  suddenness  that  Aunt  Dinah, 
who  was  just  lifting  a  lid  off  the  stove  to  start 
the  fire,  dropped  it  on  the  brick  floor  with  a 
tremendous  clatter,  and  started  back  in  affright. 
She  was  morally  sure  Betsy  had  come  there 
"to  kunger  her  w'ite  folks'  vittles." 


232  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Howdy,  Dinah?"  Betsy  said,  in  tones  of 
affability  that  were  rendered  null  and  void  by 
her  sinister  glances. 

"Howdy,  Betsy?  How's  yo'  folks?"  Dinah 
said,  with  propitiatory  politeness.  But  Betsy 
had  no  time  to  waste  in  the  idle  interchange  of 
social  amenities. 

"I  want  to  see  Miss  Fanny,"  she  said,  almost 
authoritatively. 

"Miss  Fanny?"  Dinah  repeated,  with  as 
tonishment. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  cyarn  do  it.  Miss  Fanny's  been 
in  her  bed  ever  since  dey  tuk  her  out'n  dat 
cyart  'bout  as  dead  as  tudder  one." 

"Is  de  Provy  dead?"  Betsy  asked,  anxiously. 

"No,  bless  de  Law'.  De  doctor  say  he  gwine 
pull  frew  yit.  Dey  got  de  ball  out  las'  night." 

"I  want  t'  see  Miss  Fanny,"  Betsy  repeated, 
stolidly. 

It  required  more  moral  courage  than  Dinah 
was  possessed  of  to  deny  a  witch  any  demand, 
reasonable  or  unreasonable.  She  turned  toward 
the  house  perplexedly.  She  declined  the  re 
sponsibility  of  a  second  refusal. 

"Tell  her  it's  Betsy  Robinson,  en  she  say  she 
mus'  see  her,"  Betsy  called  after  Dinah,  emphat 
ically,  as  she  waddled  toward  the  house. 

She   grew   tired   of   waiting,  and  quietly  fol- 


jBALDY'S  POINT.  233 

lowed  in  the  wake  of  her  embassadress  in  time 
to  hear  a  weak,  querulous  voice  say : 

"Tell  her  I  wont  see  her;  I'm  sick." 

"Yes,  you  will,  missy,"  Betsy  answered  for 
herself,  boldly  pressing  forward  until  she  stood 
by  Dinah's  side  in  the  darkened  chamber.  "En 
you  won  think  me  sassy  nuther,  we'n  I  git  frew." 

"You  go,  Dinah,"  she  said,  in  authoritative 
tones.  But  Fanny  sat  up  in  bed  preparing  for 
an  angry  protest.  Betsy  looked  at  her  with  a 
distorted  glance. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  sweety;  you'll  be 
glad  I  came  fo'  I  git  frew.  Only  Dinah  mus' 
clar  out." 

"Go,  Dinah,"  Fanny  said,  pushing  her  hair 
back  behind  her  ears  and  staring  wonderingly 
at  this  strange  visitor.  "I'm  not  afraid." 

"I  wouldn't  hu't  a  ha'r  uv  yo'  head,  sweety," 
Betsy  said,  then  stood  mute  until  Dinah's 
heavy  footfall  died  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  kitchen  before  she  began  abruptly : 

"He  was  yo'  sweetheart,  honey,  warn'  he?" 

"Who  are  you  talking  about?  That  poor 
man  in  yonder?" 

"I  mean  t'other  one,  Miss  Fanny.  I  mean 
de  one  dat  folks  say  done  dis  deed." 

Fanny's  blanched  cheeks  and  lips  frightened 
her;  she  came  nearer  and  said  anxiously,  al 
most  imploringly: 


234  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Don't  faint,  missy.  Thar's  work  fo'  you  t* 
do  to-day.  Please,  ma'm,  don't  faint." 

"I'm  not  going  to  faint.     Go  on." 

"He  didn't  do  it,  missy.  De  folks  all  say  he 
done  it.  He  didn',  sweety.  I  was  in  dem 
woods.  I  see  Henry  White  sittin'  under  the 
sycamo'  tree  es  white  en  es  still  es  a  ghost, 
just  fo'  dat  shot  was  fire'.  I  hear  dat  shot — 
who  gwine  say  who  done  it?  But  Henry  White 
never  done  it,  missy.  I  want  de  folks  to  know 
dat  I  darsent  come  out  plain,  Miss  Fanny,  but 
I  knowed  you  wouldn'  tell  on  me,  en  I  wanted 
you  t'  know  yo'  sweetheart  didn'  have  de 
Provy's  blood  on  his  hands.  But,  missy,  de 
folks  think  he  done  it  all  de  same,  en  dey  gwine 
mek  it  hot  fer  him  dis  ve'y  night.  Thar  ain'  no 
jestiss  in  it,  Miss  Fanny,  en  I  wanted  to  let 
wi'te  folks  know.  But  you  won't  tell  on  me?" 

"Who  are  you?"  Fanny  asked,  leaning  ea 
gerly  forward  toward  the  gaunt  black  form — 
this  woman  who  had  lifted  such  a  load  from 
her  breast. 

"I  ain'  gwine  tell  you.  I  don'  want  you  t* 
know.  I  wan'  you  t'  write  somethin'  on  a 
piece  uv  paper  en  gin  it  t'  me.  I'll  tell  you 
what  to  write.  En  I'll  put  it  whar  it'll  do  good. 
You  won't  tell  on  me,  missy." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it,  and  what 
must  I  write?"  Mechanically  Fanny  had  risen 


BALDY'S  POINT.  235 

and  seated  herself  before  her  writing-desk. 
What  spell  had  been  laid  upon  her  to  make 
her  under  such  docile  obedience  to  this  weird 
visitor?  She  had  said  she  knew  Henry  White 
had  not  done  this  thing,  and  Fanny  was  ready 
to  fall  down  and  worship  her  for  the  boon  of 
these  words. 

"What  must  I  write?"  she  repeated,  looking 
at  Betsy  eagerly. 

"Put  it  in  yo'  own  words,  but  tell  him  he 
mus'n'  stay  at  home  t'-night.  De  folks  is 
gwin  t'  pester  him.  Dey  means  harm.  Put  it 
in  w'ite  folks'  words,  honey :  if  it  sounds  lak 
nigger  nonsense,  it  won*  do  no  good.  He'll 
think  somebody  want  to  skeer  him,  en  he's 
a^mouty  obstinit  man,  he  is  dat." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?"  Fan 
ny's  cheeks  were  aflame.  A  feverish  light  was 
burning  in  her  eyes.  She  dipped  the  pen  into 
the  ink,  and  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  her 
with  a  trembling  hand. 

"I  gwine  see  dat  he  gits  it,"  said  Betsy,  with 
emphasis,  "en  I  gwine  see  nobody  don'  know 
dat  he  gits  it  but  me.  Mek  it  strong,  missy. 
He's  mouty  obstinit.  Put  it  in  w'ite  folks' 
words." 

"Yes,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  little  catch  in  her 
breath,  "I'll  make  it  strong."  Then  she 
bent  her  head  as  if  she  would  hide  the  swift- 


236  AALDY'S  POINT. 

rising  blushes  from  this  sinister-eyed  woman 
who  stood  with  folded  arms  looking  down 
upon  her. 

"You  are  in  great  danger.  You  are  wrong 
fully  accused  of  this  thing.  If  you — love — 
anybody,  leave  the  neighborhood  immediately, 
and  stay  until  your  friends  can  explain  mat 
ters.  Papa  telegraphed  for  Mr.  Ford's  wife 
this  morning.  I  wish  I  could  hear  you  say, 
before  you  do  go,  that  you  forgive  me  all  I 
have  made  you  suffer.  Whether  you  are 
angry  with  me  yet  or  not,  do  not,  I  implore 
you,  neglect  this  warning. 

"F.  R." 

It  was  a  reckless  thing  to  do.  What  would 
come  of  it? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

WHAT   DID   COME   OF   IT. 

THE  lights  and  the  shadows  that  chased 
each  other  across  his  own  private  and  indi 
vidual  horizon  that  day  were  things  to  be 
remembered  for  all  time  by  Henry  White. 

It  was  in  utter  unconsciousness  that  he  had 
become  the  pivotal  point  for  so  much  sup 
pressed  excitement  since  he  had  locked  the  toll- 
gate  the  night  before,  that  he  unlocked  it  the 
next  morning.  No  rumor,  even,  of  the  Pro 
vost's  mishap  had  found  its  way  to  the  quiet 
home  behind  the  locusts.  There  was  no  one 
to  tell  him  save  those  who  were  implicated  in 
keeping  it  from  him.  His  mother  and  he  had 
dragged  out  the  evening  heavily  enough.  He 
was  glad  he  had  not  found  her  in  one  of  those 
loquacious  moods.  He  could  have  stood 
almost  anything  better,  that  night,  than  a 
demand  for  responsiveness. 

As  it  was,  she  sat  there  in  subdued  nervous 
ness,  computing  all  the  possible  evil  that  might 
follow  upon  Henry's  summary  action  in  the 
matter  of  the  ejectment,  while  he  was  trying, 
237 


238  JSALDY'S  POINT. 

by  sheer  force  of  will,  to  convince  himself  that 
life  was  not  the  leaden-hued  thing  it  seemed. 

What  a  dreadful  procession  of  to-morrows 
stretched  ahead  of  him  !  all  to  be  endured  or  to 
be  met  as  man  meets  the  shock  of  battle.  If  it 
were  not  for  her,  that  loving,  querulous,  un 
wise  mother,  in  whose  sunken  white  temples 
the  blue  vein-tracery  was  growing  more  pathet 
ically  conspicuous  day  by  day,  he  would  turn 
his  back  on  it  all,  and  start  afresh  somewhere, 
where  his  past  could  not  hold  him  in  such  a 
death-grip. 

That  was  the  thing  of  all  others  he  most 
longed  to  do  that  night.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  he  had  deserted  her  for  a  few  seconds 
that,  when  the  clock  struck  nine,  and  they 
could  decently  essay  to  drop  the  vail  of  obliv 
ion  on  all  the  worries  of  the  day,  he  wound  his 
arms  about  his  mother,  and  kissed  her  good 
night  twice  affectionately  instead  of  only  once 
in  his  usual  perfunctory  manner. 

"These  are  lonely  days  for  you,  mother, 
while  I  am  down  at  the  gate.  Can't  you  think 
of  some  one  you  would  like  to  have  stay  with 
you?  Some  one  who  would  perhaps  be  glad  of 
the  home  comfort  of  Whitefields,  poor  as  it  is 
nowadays?" 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  then  made 
another  one  of  her  mistakes. 


BALDY'S  POINT.  239 

"Nobody  but  Fanny,  dear.  She  and  I  al 
ways  got  on  so — 

But  there  was  no  one  to  hear  the  close  of 
her  sentence.  With  an  oath,  the  only  one 
that  had  ever  escaped  his  lips  in  her  presence, 
he  turned  passionately  and  left  her. 

The  tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  Her  lips 
quivered  like  a  child's. 

"What  had  come  over  Henry?  She  was 
actually  getting  to  be  afraid  of  her  own  child  !" 

He  begged  her  pardon  the  next  morning  very 
contritely,  when  he  took  his  tin  dinner-pail  from 
her  hand ;  and  she,  oblivious  of  everything  but 
the  worn  look  of  his  young  face  and  the  great 
black  circles  that  sleeplessness  had  drawn  about 
his  dear  eyes,  begged  his  in  return,  so  the  rec 
onciliation  was  complete. 

A  solemn  hush  still  rested  over  the  little 
shanty  when  he  came  in  sight  of  it.  There  was 
not  even  a  bird-note  to  break  it.  His  long 
hours  of  solitude  there  in  the  woods  were 
bringing  to  him  what  he  called  primeval 
instincts.  His  hearing  was  growing  marvel- 
ously  acute.  His  eyes  were  gradually  acquiring 
the  power  of  discerning  objects  at  a  much 
greater  distance  than  ever  before.  This  partic 
ular  morning  they  discerned  a  small  white  ob 
ject  lying  on  the  board  under  the  sycamore 
tree.  He  quickened  his  steps  perceptibly. 


240  BALDY'S  POINT. 

What  was  it,  and  how  came  it  there?  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  still  at  a  great 
distance  when  this  marvel  dawned  upon  him. 
It  was  a  letter,  and  he  knew  from  whom.  It 
was  Fanny  Ray's  handwriting.  But  it  was  his 
name,  not  the  Provost's,  that  was  written  on 
the  little  square  envelope  which  he  took  up 
so  wonderingly.  He  remembered,  afterward, 
that  he  had  removed  a  little  piece  of  brick  that 
had  been  used  for  a  paper-weight.  He  sat 
down  on  the  cypress  block  by  his  rude  table 
and  held  the  letter  a  long  time  unopened. 
Why  should  he  be  in  haste  to  open  it?  Doubt 
less  it  would  but  reveal  another  phase  of  heart- 
lessness  in  the  woman  who  wrote  it.  He  must 
make  himself  understand  that  he  had  fully 
fathomed  Fanny  Ray's  shallow  soul.  He  won 
dered  why  the  letter  was  not  damp  with  the 
dews  of  night.  He  wondered  how  it  had  gotten 
there.  No  one  from  Baldy's  Point  could  pos 
sibly  have  come  out  so  early.  He  wondered 
why  it  was  there  at  all ;  and  then,  as  deliber 
ately  as  if  he  were  holding  an  account  of  sales 
in  his  hand,  he  took  his  knife  from  his  pocket, 
opened  the  small  blade  and  slipped  it  under  the 
flaps  of  the  envelope  almost  reluctantly.  This 
was  his  way  of  holding  himself  well  in  hand. 
It  was  a  species  of  self-discipline. 
"At  las' !" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  241 

His  woodcraft  did  not  bring  that  whispered 
exclamation  of  relief  to  his  ears,  nor  did  he 
hear  the  scurrying  of  Betsy's  feet  as  she  stole 
swiftly  away  from  the  spot  where  she  had  been 
keeping  watch  and  ward  over  the  letter.  He 
was  oblivious  to  everything  but  the  few  words 
that  lay  revealed  before  him. 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  penitence,  words 
of  kindness  from  Fanny  Ray  to  him  !  O  miracle 
of  sweetness  and  light !  He  took  in  confusedly 
the  words  of  warning.  Doubtless  she  had 
heard  the  stupid  threats  of  that  desperado, 
Robinson,  and,  woman-like,  thought  they 
meant  something.  But  that  she  should  care  to 
warn  him !  That  she  should  embody  a  plea 
for  pardon  in  that  hasty  note !  That  she 
should  care  whether  harm  came  to  him  or  not ! 

A  sun-burst  of  light  came  down  through  the 
branches  of  the  sycamore  tree  and  fell  on  the 
note  in  his  hand.  The  words  danced  before 
his  dazzled  eyes.  The  birds  shook  the  spell  of 
night  from  their  fluttering  wings,  and  came 
hopping  about  him  for  their  daily  alms.  He 
flung  it  to  them  with  a  lavish  hand.  Life  was 
not  leaden-hued ;  it  was  bright,  it  was  dazzling, 
it  was  sweet,  and  all  the  sweeter  because  the 
Provost  had  a  wife. 

He  fell  to  work  on  his  shingle-making  after 
awhile  with  fierce  energy.  He  must  work  some 


242  BALDY'S  POINT. 

of  this  excitement  off  at  his  finger-tips,  or  the 
"first  fool  that  came  along  would  read  it  or  mis 
read  it."  He  marveled,  as  the  sun  mounted 
higher  and  he  worked  on  undisturbed,  at  the 
strange  absence  of  travel  along  the  road  that 
morning.  It  must  have  been  well  on  toward 
ten  o'clock  before  he  heard  a  sound  other  than 
the  soft  splitting  away  of  the  cypress  block 
under  his  sharp  draw-knife.  It  was  a  horseman 
clattering  along  the  plank  road,  and  from  the 
gait  he  was  coming  he  would  not  relish  deten 
tion.  He  was  at  the  gate  holding  it  wide  open 
by  the  time  Cap  Van  Dorn  stopped  his  horse 
so  suddenly  on  the  other  side  of  it  as  almost  to 
precipitate  himself  over  its  head.  The  gate 
keeper  looked  up  at  him  smilingly : 

"Hillo!  you  ride  as  if  Old  Nick  himself  was 
at  your  heels." 

"Upon  my  word !"  said  Cap,  looking  down 
upon  him  with  a  mystified  glance  before  he 
sprang  from  the  saddle,  and,  with  the  bridle 
thrown  over  his  arm,  led  the  way  back  to  the 
shanty.  He  was  mystified  by  the  brightness  in 
Henry's  face. 

"You  haven't  been  at  work?"  he  asked, 
kicking  the  new-made  shingles  impatiently  out 
of  his  way. 

"Of  course  I  have.     Why  not?" 

"You're  looking  more  cheerful  than  I've  seen 


BALDY'S  POINT.  243 

you  since  you  got  back,"  Cap  said,  taking  keen 
note  of  the  new  light  that  had  come  into 
Henry's  eyes,  and  a  certain  elate  erectness. 

"I  believe  I  am  feeling  a  little  better  than 
usual  this  morning,"  said  Henry,  blushing  hotly 
and  feeling  nervously  in  the  side-pocket  where 
he  had  thrust  Fanny's  note. 

Cap  lifted  his  hat  to  run  his  fingers  perplex 
edly  through  his  thick  hair.  Was  the  man  lost 
to  all  sense  of  decency? 

"Then  you  don't  care  whether  the  fellow 
lives  or  dies,  it  seems." 

"What  fellow?"  It  was  Henry's  turn  now 
to  look  mystified. 

"The  Provost  Marshal." 

"What  ails  the  Provost  Marshal?" 

"See  here,  Henry."  Cap  had  seated  himself 
astride  the  splintery  cypress  block,  but  now  he 
sprang  up  violently  and  laid  both  hands  heavily 
on  Henry  White's  shoulder.  "Don't  act  a  part 
with  me.  It's  not  the  sort  of  revenge  I'd  have 
expected  you  to  take,  but  I'm  going  to  stand 
by  you,  old  fellow,  and  you've  got  to  get  out 
of  this." 

"What  in  creation  are  you  talking  about, 
Van  Dorn?"  Henry  shook  him  off  roughly, 
and  stepped  back  to  look  at  him  angrily. 
There  was  no  mistaking  that  look  of  mystified 
ignorance. 


244  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"Then  you  didn't  shoot  the  Provost  Mar 
shal  yesterday  after  he  rode  by  here  with 
Fanny  Ray?" 

"What !  and  you  dare  come  here  to  ask  me 
such  a  question  to  my  face?" 

Van  Dorn  quailed  before  the  indignant 
wrath  in  his  friend's  eyes.  He  ought  to  have 
known  better.  But,  then,  who  in  heaven's 
name  had  done  it?  Who  else  had  any  motive 
for  doing  it?  The  man  was  an  idol  with  the 
freedmen. 

"That's  what  it  meant,  then,"  said  Henry, 
absently.  A  new  light  had  been  shed  on 
Fanny's  words  of  warning.  Could  she  have 
ridden  out  there  herself  that  morning  for  his 
sake? 

"That's  what  what  meant?" 

But  he  had  no  notion  of  sharing  his  miracle 
of  sweetness  with  any  one  else.  He  smiled, 
and,  shoving  the  cypress  block  nearer  to  his 
visitor  with  one  foot,  said,  briskly:  "Come, 
sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  pledge 
you  my  word  you've  brought  me  the  first 
hint  of  this  whole  matter." 

"What !" 

"You  have  indeed." 

Cap  stared  at  him  in  wordless  surprise.  Of 
course  he  believed  Henry.  But  what  then  did 
this  undercurrent  of  excitement  mean?  It 


BALDY'S  POINT.  245 

showed   in  his  eyes,  his   voice,  his  entire   bear 
ing. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  said  abruptly, 
"that  you   don't  know   Wesley  Ford  was  shot* 
yesterday,   just     after    passing    the   toll-gate? 
That  he  was  shot  with  a  Winchester  rifle,  and 
that  you  get  the  credit  for  it  all?" 

"What  nonsense  you  are  talking,  Cap ! 
Have  you  been  shut  up  in  the  woods  so  long 
that  you  are  ready  to  believe  every  old  woman's 
gossip?  I  did  hear  a  shot  yesterday.  It  was 
about  sundown.  I  supposed  some  darky  was 
duck-hunting.  If  the  Provost  got  the  bene 
fit  of  it,  it  must  have  been  an  accident.  I'm 
the  only  man  in  the  county  who  owns 
a  Winchester  rifle,  and  mine  is  in  the 
shanty." 

"Is  it  there  now?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  forget  it  sometimes  when 
I  go  up  to  the  house,  but  I  generally  find  it 
just  where  I  left  it." 

He  led  the  way  toward  the  shanty  while 
speaking. 

"There!"  he  said,  triumphantly,  pointing  to 
his  gun  in  the  corner. 

Cap  seized  it  and  raised  the  hammer.  An 
empty  cartridge  fell  to  the  floor.  Both  men 
turned  ghastly  pale. 

"What  does  it  mean,    Hank?"     Van    Dorn 


246  BALDY'S  POINT. 

looked  at  his  friend  pleadingly.  Surely 
"Hank"  wouldn't  lie  to  him. 

"89  help  me  God,  Van  Dorn,  I  don't  know." 

Then  Cap  held  out  his  hand,  and  Henry 
clasped  it.  They  knew  that  whatever  else 
might  have  happened,  they  still  believed  in 
each  other. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  higher  when  Cap  rose 
to  leave.  It  had  been  hard  to  convince  Henry 
that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  do  anything 
but  stand  his  ground.  He,  Van  Dorn,  was 
bent  upon  carrying  out  the  programme 
mapped  out  by  himself  after  he  had  left  Nel 
lie  and  Mammy  at  the  Wilsons'. 

There  was  no  knowing  what  the  plans  of  the 
Provost's  dark  champions  were,  but  he  and 
Amy  had  prepared  for  them  as  far  as  pos 
sible. 

"I've  a  note  here  for  Mrs.  White  from  Miss 
Wilson,"  he  said,  producing  it.  "We  thought 
if  she  was  made  to  believe  that  she  could  be 
useful  there  to-day,  seeing  the  Major's  sick,  we 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  getting  her  out  of 
the  way." 

"That  was  thoughtful  of  you  both.  'You'll 
drive  mother  over  for  me?"  said  Henry  calmly. 

"No,  sir;  you'll  drive  her  over  yourself. 
Can't  you  see  what  a  pucker  she'd  be  in  if  I, 
the  man  she  despises  above  everything,  should 


BALDY'S  POINT.  247 

incontinently  drive  off  with  her  and  leave  you 
behind?" 

"That's  true,"  said  Henry  anxiously;  "but, 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  if  I  drive  off  with 
her,  these  black  fiends  will  say  I'm  running 
away  from  them,  and  I'll  die  before  I  give  them 
a  chance  to  do  that." 

"Would  there  be  any  special  display  of  brav 
ery  in  not  running  away?  You  are  one  against 
several  hundred.  By  to-morrow  night  they 
may  have  come  to  their  senses  or  cooled  down 
a  little.  At  present  they're  simply  so  many 
ravening  wolves." 

"I'll  drive  mother  over  there  and  leave  her," 
said  Henry  finally,  gritting  his  teeth  with  im 
potent  rage,  "and  then  I'll  come  back  as  fast 
as  horse-power  can  bring  me.  I'll  be  hanged  if 
I  run  from  a  parcel  of  niggers!" 

"The  quicker  you're  off  the  better,"  said 
Cap  curtly;  "there's  nothing  more  I  can  do 
for  you  at  present.  You  promise  to  start  for 
the  Wilsons'  immediately?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  hitch  the  buggy  up,"  said 
Henry,  gathering  his  scattered  belongings  to 
gether  while  speaking.  The  sooner  he  got  his 
mother  out  to  the  Wilsons'  the  sooner  he 
would  get  back. 

Cap  drove  the  sharp  rowels  of  his  spurs  into 
his  horse's  flanks  in  needless  cruelty  as  he 


248  BALDY'S  POINT. 

turned  his  head  toward  Baldy's  Point.  "There 
Avas  no  danger  of  Henry's  coming  back  to 
Whitefields  that  evening,"  he  said  to  himself, 
bitterly;  "Amy  Wilson  would  see  to  it  that  he 
did  not."  And  then,  as  if  taking  blame  to  him 
self  for  even  so  fleeting  a  reflection  upon  her, 
he  lifted  his  hat  reverently  from  his  head,  and 
said  aloud : 

"God  forever  bless  her.  She's  one  of  His 
own." 

His  immediate  errand  out  to  Baldy's  Point 
was  to  learn  the  extent  of  the  Provost's 
injuries,  and  to  discover,  cautiously,  how 
many  people  knew  of  this  plot  against  Henry 
White.  Those  were  times  when  it  was  well 
if  a  man  could  prevent  his  left  hand  from 
finding  out  what  his  right  hand  was  doing. 
The  slightest  indiscretion  at  this  juncture  might 
precipitate  the  entire  locality  into  a  state  of 
fermentation.  Whatever  his  business,  it  kept 
him  all  day  out  at  Baldy's  Point.  The  sun  was 
sinking  when  he  mounted  his  horse  and  rode 
rapidly  out  of  the  little  town  where  the  one 
topic  of  conversation  was  the  shooting  of 
Wesley  Ford.  It  had  sunken  entirely,  and  the 
shades  of  night  were  falling  fast,  when  he 
quietly  opened  the  yard  gate  at  Whitefields, 
and  passed  through  it  on  foot.  The  house  was 
dark,  the  yard  was  tenantless ;  a  silence  as  of 


BALDY'S  POINT.  249 

death  brooded  over  the  premises.  Cap  made 
the  circuit  of  the  house  and  the  kitchen  to 
make  sure  of  his  solitary  possession.  Then, 
mounting  to  the  back  steps,  he  swung  himself 
lightly  from  its  banisters  into  the  branches  of  a 
paper-mulberry  tree  whose  higher  limbs  spread 
themselves  over  the  gallery  roof.  With  the 
agility  of  a  monkey,  he  swung  from  limb  to 
limb  until  the  roof  was  reached,  ran  along  it 
until  he  came  to  the  dormer,  whose  closed 
shutters  he  raised  from  their  hinges  by  a 
violent  exercise  of  strength. 

"Slightly  burglarious,"  he  said,  as  he  leaped 
down  into  the  dark  hall  and  paused  to  pull  his 
vest  and  trousers  into  normal  connection  with 
each  other. 

He  had  provided  himself  with  matches.  It 
took  him  only  a  few  moments  to  light  lamps  in 
different  parts  of  the  house,  and  to  open  the 
doors  and  windows  with  a  careful  regard  to  the 
usual  routine  of  the  household  as  well  as  he 
could  recall  it. 

Henry's  short  seersucker  coat,  which  was 
reserved  for  house  wear,  hung  on  the  hat-rack 
in  the  hall.  So  did  his  low  straw  hat,  with  its 
broad  black  ribbon  band.  Cap  invested  him 
self  in  both,  then  held  a  lamp  in  front  of  the 
parlor  mirror  to  scan  himself. 

"Not  a  bad  imitation.     If  they  think  he's  at 


250  BALDY'S  POINT. 

home  they  won't  look  for  him  anywhere  else. 
Perhaps  it's  all  words,  but  I'll  be  ready  for 
them.  It  won't  do  for  them  to  think  the  white 
men  are  growing  timid.  Come  what  may,  poor 
little  Nellie  will  have  a  friend." 

He  moved  about  the  house  with  conspicuous 
activity  for  a  few  moments,  then,  walking  out 
on  the  front  gallery,  he  seated  himself,  lighted 
a  cigar,  and,  tilting  his  chair  back,  elevated  his 
feet  to  the  banister  rail,  in  token  of  absolute 
indifference  to  the  brooding  storm. 

He  was  seen  of  more  than  one  dark  form  as 
it  slunk  cautiously  by  the  fence  on  its  way  to 
the  rendezvous  appointed  by  Henry  Robinson. 
The  night  was  very  dark — so  dark  that  the 
man  on  the  gallery,  whose  striped  seersucker 
coat  and  white  straw  hat  were  only  dimly  dis 
cernible  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  hall 
table  behind  him,  could  see  only  a  foot  or  two 
of  the  broken  brick  walk  that  led  from  the 
front  steps  to  the  front  gate,  and  such  shrubs 
and  tree  limbs  as  came  within  the  radius  of 
that  dim  lamp-light.  The  mutterings  of  dis 
tant  thunder  broke  the  silence  occasionally, 
followed  by  fitful  flashes  of  lightning  that  only 
intensified  the  succeeding  darkness.  The 
pockets  of  the  seersucker  coat  sagged  heavily. 
There  was  a  loaded  pistol  in  each  one. 

"If  they'll   only  show  themselves,"  said  Cap 


BALDY'S  POINT.  251 

to  himself,  cautiously  familiarizing  himself  with 
the  location  of  the  triggers,  "I'll  stand  some 
chance." 

But  nothing  showed  itself.  Under  the  man 
tle  of  the  black  night  the  dark  forms  stole 
stealthily  by  the  house  in  ever-increasing  num 
bers.  Some  of  them  felt  slightly  compunctious 
toward  that  motionless  form  on  the  gallery. 
But  they  had  yielded  up  all  volition  to  the  man 
who  had  bidden  them  meet  him  at  the  White- 
fields  gin  that  night.  They  had  conned  their 
lesson  like  faithful  parrots.  "Their  rights  had 
been  trampled  on.  Their  champion  had  been 
murderously  assaulted,  and  if  they  did  not  re 
venge  him  they  would  be  left  to  look  out  for 
themselves  in  all  future  emergencies."  Appall 
ing  contingency !  They  were  going  to  secure 
themselves  against  it. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SPECTER   WINGS. 

AS  a  usual  thing,  the  amenities  of  domestic 
life  were  none  too  closely  observed  in  the 
cabin  on  the  Webb  place  which  Betsy  called 
home.  She  was  not  an  exacting  spouse.  She 
never  called  her  husband  to  account  for  unex 
plained  absences,  but,  \vith  a  stolid  composure 
that  might  easily  have  reached  the  exaltation 
of  dignity  in  a  higher  social  grade,  she  would 
conscientiously  set  aside  a  large  proportion  of 
the  family  rations  for  his  benefit;  which  done, 
she  washed  her  hands  and  her  conscience  of  all 
concern  in  his  affairs.  Wifely  solicitude  could 
go  no  further  with  her.  But  on  the  morning 
of  that  early  visit  of  hers  to  Baldy's  Point,  she 
showed  an  unusual  spirit  of  conciliation. 

She  found  him  sitting  in  sulky  abstraction  on 
the  front  steps  when  she  rode  up  with  the  corn- 
meal  she  had  traded  for  at  Sellers's  tied  up  in  a 
pillow-slip  that  was  resting  on  the  pommel  of 
her  saddle.  He  raised  his  blood-shotten  eyes 
as  she  stopped  in  front  of  him,  but  volunteered 
no  assistance. 

252 


BALDY'S  POINT.  253 

"Holp  me  down  wid  de  meal,  ol'  man,  en  on- 
tie  de  piller  slip.  I  fetch  you  a  pinf  uv  whisky. 
I  ain'  gwine  pester  you  no  mo*  t'  day." 

"To-day,"  she  repeated  to  herself,  with 
emphasis,  swinging  the  sack  of  meal  into 
Henry's  hands  and  cantering  away  to  turn  the 
mule  loose  in  the  lot. 

Henry's  sense  of  the  civil  was  immensely 
quickened  by  that  mention  of  the  pint  of 
whisky.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  alacrity  to 
relieve  his  wife  of  the  heavy  sack.  Extracting 
the  black  flask  from  its  neck,  he  dumped  it 
unceremoniously  inside  the  house.  He  was 
not  without  a  certain  amount  of  conscience,  a 
stunned  and  deadened  thing  that  was  feebly 
protesting  within  his  hardened  breast,  and 
making  it  somewhat  difficult  for  him  to  keep 
his  courage  up  to  the  sticking-point. 

The  whisky  was  just  what  he  needed.  His 
potations  were  many  and  deep.  The  day  was 
a  long  one  to  him,  but  the  night  came  at  last. 
He  had  spent  nearly  the  whole  time  of  waiting 
sitting  motionless  on  the  front  steps,  with  his 
blood-shotten  eyes  dropped  upon  the  ground 
between  his  feet,  brooding  over  his  fancied 
wrongs  and  feeding  the  flames  of  hate  with 
fiery  draughts  from  the  black  flask  by  his 
side. 

He  was  rather  glad,  when  the  time  came  to 


254  BALDY'S  POINT. 

start  for  the  Whitefields  gin,  that  Betsy  was 
nowhere  visible.  She  had  promised  not  to 
"pester"  him  any  more  that  day,  but  he  didn't 
care  to  risk  a  renewal  of  her  prophecies  of  woe 
when  he  started  on  his  evil  errand.  There  was 
a  long  stretch  of  darksome  woodland  that  he 
must  traverse  before  reaching  the  main  road, 
and  he'd  much  rather  hear  the  hooting  of  the 
screech-owls  in  its  fastnesses  than  one  of 
Betsy's  lectures.  Not  that  she  lectured  habit 
ually,  but  in  this  matter  of  Henry  White  she 
showed  a  disposition  to  be  ugly  with  him. 

His  cabin  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  woods. 
It  had  been  originally  built  for  a  stock-minder's 
convenience.  Almost  immediately  after  cross 
ing  a  rickety  stile  which  did  duty  for  a  gate  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  dense  forest  growth.  He 
was  not  timid.  He  had  followed  the  cattle 
trail  through  the  Bomber  aisles  in  many  a  noc 
turnal  expedition.  But  to-night  they  seemed 
denser  and  darker  than  ever. 

He  stumbled  along  the  rough  path  with  nerv 
ous  haste.  The  roots  that  veined  it  seemed 
to  have  multiplied  miraculously  and  resolved 
themselves  into  so  many  snares  for  his 
hurrying  feet.  The  outstretched  arms  of  a 
blackthorn  caught  his  ragged  straw  hat  and 
swung  it  aloft.  He  reached  up  to  recover  it, 
clutched  recklessly  at  the  thorny  branch,  and 


BALDY'S  POINT  255 

held  by  it  for  support.  His  knees  were  sway 
ing  treacherously  beneath  him. 

A  few  feet  from  the  blackthorn  a  strange 
apparition  had  sprung  up  immediately  in  the 
path  he  must  tread.  Two  large  white  wings, 
belonging  to  nothing,  apparently,  this  side  the 
spirit  world  were  waving  slowly  and  solemnly 
in  the  direction  he  had  come.  Their  spectral 
tips  were  pointed  accurately  toward  his  cabin — 
the  cabin  where  he  had  left  Betsy  and  the 
children.  A  pale  phosphorescent  glow  shone 
steadily  about  the  base  of  the  wings.  There 
was  nothing  more  to  the  apparition.  Whether 
supported  by  the  powers  above  or  the  demons 
below  was  more  than  the  frightened  wretch 
could  conjecture.  The  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
the  tops  of  the  tall  trees  was  all  the  sound  he 
heard.  It  might  have  been  the  rustle  of  those 
ghostly  wings,  so  sadly  it  whispered.  To  and 
fro,  always  in  the  direction  of  his  cabin,  they 
swayed,  waving  him  .backward  from  the  scene 
of  his  meditated  crime. 

"It's  some  wil'  critter  that  I  kyarn  mek  out 
fur  de  dark,"  the  cowering  culprit  moaned,  and, 
grasping  his  hat,  he  veered  abruptly  from  the 
cattle  trail  and  went  crashing  through  the  un 
trodden  undergrowth  like  an  ox.  He  would 
take  a  short  cut  around  "the  critter,"  and  come 
back  to  the  path  farther  down,  where  the  roads 


256  BALDY'S  POINT. 

forked.  He  drew  his  breath  more  comfortably 
when  the  thick  foliage  hid  from  his  view  those 
strangely  luminous  white  wings. 

This  detention  would  make  him  late,  and 
"the  folks"  would  think  he  was  not  coming  at 
all.  He  quickened  his  pace  almost  to  a  run, 
and  reached  the  forks  of  the  road  quite  spent 
for  breath. 

There,  swaying  to  and  fro,  always  pointing 
their  spectral  tips  toward  the  path  he  had  trod 
den,  were  the  wings. 

He  stood  still  in  palsied  terror.  The  very 
breath  seemed  frozen  in  his  lungs.  In  the 
death-like  stillness  that  wrapped  him  about  he 
could  hear  the  weird  rustle  of  those  unearthly 
wings.  And  as  they  swayed,  the  phosphores 
cent  gleam  was  fanned  into  a  brighter  light. 
He  stretched  his  hands  toward  it  beseechingly. 

"Do  it  mean  I  mus'  go  back?  Do  it  mean 
de  Lawd  gwine  scorch  my  soul  ef  I  don'  leave 
dat  w'ite  man  'lone?  Say,  marse  spirit,  is  dat 
yo'  meanin'?" 

The  wings  were  pointed  slowly  and  solemnly 
in  the  direction  of  his  cabin.  He  staggered 
backward  a  few  steps.  There  was  no  mistaking 
that  ghostly  command.  He  would  give  up  his 
revenge.  He  turned  backward  with  a  groan  of 
anguish.  Blackness  reigned  supreme.  He 
retreated  half  a  dozen  steps,  and  then  cast  a 


BALDY'S  POINT.  257 

frightened  look  over  his  shoulder.  The  wings 
were  nowhere  visible. 

"I'se  a  w'ite-livered  fool,"  he  said  aloud  in 
swift  revulsion  from  fear  to  wrath ;  "it  war'n 
nuthin'  but  a  w'ite  cow.  I  done  swore  t'  kill 
Henry  White  this  night,  an'  I  gwine  do  it." 

Veering  again,  he  plunged  forward  past  the 
forks  of  the  road.  Of  course  it  had  been  all 
imagination.  There  was  the  wide  open  space 
where  the  three  roads  met,  and  where  the  faint 
starlight  showed  him  everything  in  its  normal 
condition.  Everything  was  just  as  it  should  be. 
He  was  all  right  at  last.  There  was  the  big 
road.  In  a  moment  he  would  be  opposite 
the  shanty — the  shanty  that  should  never 
again  shelter  the  toll-gate  keeper  from  the  wind 
and  the  rain.  Revenge  was  too  sweet  to  be 
relinquished.  But  It — They — were  there  before 
him.  They  looked  whiter,  larger,  more  myste 
rious  than  ever,  seen  in  "the  open"  where  the 
gleam  of  light  at  their  base  shed  its  faint  lumin- 
ousness  over  the  lustrous  feathers.  To  and  fro, 
always  with  their  spectral  tips  turned  toward 
the  cabin  where  Betsy  and  the  children  were, 
they  waved  their  warning  to  him.  "Back,  go 
back!" — that  was  the  mute  command. 

With  a  howl  of  terror  he  struck  abruptly 
off  to  the  right.  The  river  was  not  far  away. 
He  had  heard  the  folks  say  spirits  never  crossed 


258  BALDY'S  POINT. 

the  water.  On  and  on  he  raced :  now  stumbling 
over  some  unseen  obstruction,  only  to  pick 
himself  up  bruised  and  bleeding;  now  casting 
a  look  over  his  shoulder,  only  to  see  those 
terrible  white  wings  slowly  following,  always 
waving  him  backward  from  his  deadly  purpose ; 
now  rushing  forward  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
outstretched  palms,  willing  to  grope  his  way 
blindly,  if  only  he  could  shut  out  the  sight  of 
that  pursuing  presence.  He  heard  the  rushing 
river  close  at  hand  at  last.  What  a  tumult  of 
sound !  It  was  "on  the  rise."  It  was  rush 
ing  seaward  in  angry,  swollen  volume.  His 
skiff  was  there ;  he  was  always  on  the  lookout 
for  flotsam  and  jetsam.  Once  let  him  grasp 
its  strong  oars,  and  he  would  bid  defiance 
to  the  avenging  spirit  that  was  pursuing  him 
so  hotly. 

At  headlong  speed  he  stumbled  down  the 
steep  river  bank  and  bounded  into  his  skiff. 
With  shaking  hands  he  unwound  the  chain  that 
secured  it  to  the  stake,  and,  seizing  an  oar,  he 
sent  it  spinning  far  out  into  the  swift  cur 
rent.  An  eddy  caught  it  and  sent  it  round 
with  a  swirl.  He  gave  a  yell  of  triumph  as  he 
saw  the  white  wings  there  on  the  bank,  power 
less  to  pursue;  no  longer  waving,  no  longer 
forcing  him  backward  with  their  spectral  tips  ; 
motionless,  drooping,  vanquished !  Then  he 


BALDY'S  POINT.  259 

awoke  to  a  new  peril.  He  was  in  the  swirl 
of  a  fierce  eddy.  He  seized  the  other  oar,  and, 
with  all  his  boatman  skill,  tried  to  extricate 
himself.  Around  and  around,  faster  and  faster, 
he  spun,  every  circuit  bringing  him  again  face 
to  face  with  those  motionless  white  wings. 
What  a  witch's  caldron  it  was !  Great  black 
drift-logs,  rushing  by  on  the  swollen  current, 
were  sucked  in  and  joined  in  a  devil's  waltz 
about  the  little  boat.  In  vain  he  pulled  now 
on  the  right  oar  alone,  now  on  the  left,  then  on 
both.  The  doomed  skiff  only  spun  the  swifter 
in  its  dizzy  circle  about  the  eddy.  The  black 
ened  corpses  of  the  dead  trees  smote  it  fore 
and  aft,  until  it  shivered  throughout  its  entire 
length.  The  sound  of  the  rushing  waters  filled 
his  ears.  Mingled  with  it  was  the  muttering  of 
the  thunder  stored  away  in  the  piled-up  masses 
of  inky  clouds  that  hid  the  friendly  stars  from 
him.  A  rush  of  cold  water  over  his  feet !  A 
hole  had  been  beaten  in  the  side  of  the  skiff! 
He  flung  his  oars  away.  They  were  useless  to 
him.  He  stood  dumbly  up  in  the  boat. 
There  was  no  help,  no  light,  no  hope,  anywhere. 
Overhead  swift-scurrying  storm  clouds;  around 
him,  swifter-rushing,  pitiless  water;  landward, 
those  still,  white  wings.  Without  a  sound,  with 
no  word  of  fear,  nor  of  supplication,  nor  of  re 
morse,  he  faced  his  doom.  Raising  his  arms 


260  BALDY'S  POINT. 

over  his  head,  he  clasped  his  hands  together 
and  leaped.  One  chance  in  a  million ! 

The  eddy  engulfed  him.  The  cold  waters 
embraced  him.  The  swift-swirling  logs  lifted 
him  in  their  arms  and  bore  him  seaward  in 
triumph,  when  chance  finally  released  them 
from  the  witch's  caldron.  And  the  thing  that 
had  been  a  scheming,  passionate,  vengeful  per 
sonality,  but  a  moment  before,  was  tossed  upon 
the  shores  of  eternity  like  a  dead  leaf.  The 
white  wings  drooped,  fluttered,  fell  heavily  to 
the  ground.  The  phosphorescent  gleam  died 
out  as  they  fell.  Betsy  leaned  far  over  the 
river  bank  to  listen  for  the  sound  of  oars. 

"The  waters  meks  a  mighty  fuss  to-night," 
she  said,  fretfully,  "but  he'll  come  out  all  right. 
Let  him  row  'bout  on  de  water  tell  he  cool  off 
some.  I  had  t'  skeer  "im." 

She  stooped,  and,  lifting  from  the  ground 
two  immense  white  crane's  wings,  whose  only 
function,  hitherto,  had  been  to  ornament  the 
ends  of  her  one  mantel-piece,  she  slapped  them 
softly  together,  and,  untying  the  two  small 
bladders  appended  to  their  lower  edges,  she 
thriftily  extracted  the  remains  of  two  candles, 
which  she  deposited  in  the  bosom  of  her  scant 
black  dress. 

"I  cou'dn'  uv  headed  him  off  so  easy,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "ef  it  hedn'  ben  fur  de  whisky 


BALDY'S  POINT.  261 

in  his  head,  but  I  done  swear  he  shant  hu't 
Henry  White,  en  I  kep'  my  word,  dat's  all.  Thar 
ain'no  jestiss  in  it.  Dat  w'ite  man  done  fed  me 
en  my  chillun  many  a  time  w'en  we  would  'a' 
starved  to  def  fur  all  Henry  Rob'son  done  fur 
us.  I  had  t'  skeer  him  out'n  it.  Dat's  all.  But 
he'll  turn  up  all  right."  She  folded  the  wings, 
that  had  done  such  effective  ghostly  service, 
carefully  under  her  black  apron  and  started  rap 
idly  homeward.  Henry  must  find  her  fast 
asleep  when  he  got  back  to  the  cabin. 

The  excited  crowd  that  had  gathered  from 
far  and  near  under  the  gin  shed  at  Whitefields 
that  night  waited  in  vain  for  the  coming  of 
their  leader.  Not  a  tenth  of  their  number 
knew  distinctly  why  they  were  there.  Still 
a  smaller  proportion  knew  what  roles  had  been 
assigned  them.  No  one  knew  anything  clearly 
but  the  leading  spirit  that  had  convened  this 
gathering.  They  could  do  nothing  without 
Henry  Robinson.  As  the  night  wore  on  and 
he  did  not  come,  they  waxed  wroth.  He  was 
playing  them  false !  He  wanted  them  to  run 
all  the  risk  while  he  secured  himself.  Disaffec 
tion  seized  upon  them.  In  darkness  and  de 
spondency  the  dense  mass  slowly  dissolved  into 
so  many  angry  atoms  and  dispersed.  Henry 
White  was  saved.  The  threatened  storm  had 
been  averted  by  a  woman's  wit. 


262  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Galloping  homeward  as  swiftly  as  possible 
after  depositing  his  mother  at  the  Wilsons',  he 
rode  up  to  his  own  front  in  some  trepidation. 
Those  lights  in  the  house  he  had  left  darkened 
and  locked,  what  could  they  mean?  He  ad 
vanced  up  the  brick  walk  with  his  hand  in  his 
breast-pocket.  His  ringing  footfall  brought 
Cap  Van  Dorn  suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"Who  goes  there?"  he  demanded,  peering 
out  into  the  dark  yard. 

"Cap!" 

Henry  bounded  up  the  steps  with  that  aston 
ished  exclamation.  It  all  flashed  upon  him ! 
He  drew  his  friend  into  the  lighted  hall,  sur 
veyed  him  from  head  to  foot  through  a  sudden 
mist  that  came  into  his  eyes. 

"And  you  were  willing  to  risk  all  that  for  me, 
old  fellow?" 

"I  don't  see  that  I've  risked  anything  worse 
than  a  infernal  cold,"  said  Cap,  laughing  lightly. 
"These  rogues  are  deliberate,  to  say  the  least 
of  it.  I've  about  smoked  up  all  your  cigars." 

But  Henry,  laying  his  hand  on  the  sleeve  of 
the  seersucker  coat,  said  softly : 

"Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a 
man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend." 

Together  they  kept  their  watch  through  the 
undisturbed  hours  of  the  night.  They  talked 
of  Nellie,  they  talked  of  Amy,  they  talked  of 


SALDY'S  POINT.  263 

the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  and,  in 
that  close  communion  of  hearts,  the  miracle  of 
Fanny's  repentance  slipped  from  Henry's  keep 
ing  and  was  tenderly  scanned,  Cap  silently 
wondering  if  that  would  make  any  difference 
with  Amy.  And  Henry  waxed  a  little  triumph 
ant  as  the  quiet  hours  of  the  night  wore  away, 
for  they  wotted  nothing  of  the  pulseless  form 
that  was  rushing  seaward  in  the  close  embrace 
of  the  black  drift-logs.  Nor  of  the  vengeance 
that  the  Lord  had  taken  into  his  own  hands. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

NELLIE   FINDS  AN  ASYLUM. 

BALDY'S  POINT  was  pining  for  a  sensa 
tion.  It  had  had  enough  in  the  course  of 
a  very  few  weeks  to  satisfy  any  normal  crav 
ings,  but  its  cravings  had  ceased  to  be  normal, 
and  to  ask  it  to  rest  content  now  with  the  hue- 
less  happenings  of  everyday  village  life  was  to 
ask  it  to  forego  all  its  newly  acquired  taste  for 
the  dramatic. 

Its  prime  sensation,  the  one  from  which  it 
had  extracted  the  most  decided  thrills,  had  been 
that  shooting  of  the  Provost  Marshal  and 
Fanny  Ray's  strange  drive  through  the  woods 
with  him  bleeding  at  her  feet. 

The  people  of  Baldy's  Point  felt  rebuked 
when  they  recalled  the  ready  credence  they  had 
given  to  the  Henry  White  theory  of  the 
assault.  Circumstantial  evidence  had  been  very 
strong  against  him ;  but  of  course  Henry  Rob 
inson's  flight  from  the  country  had  fastened  the 
guilt  upon  the  right  man.  Some  of  them 
claimed  to  have  been  quite  satisfied  on  that 
point  even  before  Wesley  Ford  utilized  his  first 
264 


BALDY'S  POINT.  265 

conscious  breath  to  affirm  that  his  assailant  was 
not  a  white  man. 

And  then  the  Provost's  wife  had  come — the 
Ann  whose  name  was  never  off  his  delirious 
lips.  And  Ann  had  quite  taken  the  town  by 
storm  with  her  strong,  sweet  face  and  her  brisk 
curiosity,  and  her  wide-awake  interest  in  the 
sleepy  old  town.  So  unconditionally,  indeed, 
had  Baldy's  Point  surrendered  to  the  Provost's 
wife  that  when  Amy  Wilson  proudly  appropri 
ated  her  on  the  score  of  cousinship,  and  the 
Fords  moved  out  to  the  Wilson  place  as  soon  as 
he  was  able  to  be  moved  at  all,  the  town  felt  as 
if  it  had  sustained  a  loss,  and  so  expressed 
itself. 

And  then  there  was  that  sudden  and  myste 
rious  "making  up"  of  Henry  White's  and  Fanny 
Ray's,  which  had  resulted  in  such  an  absurdly 
prompt  marriage  ceremony. 

"Scarcely  a  wedding  at  all,  "the  Judge's  wife 
had  said,  plaintively  distributing  the  cake  and 
wine  at  the  informal  reception  held  on  the. re 
turn  of  the  bridal  party  from  the  church.  She 
had  always  looked  forward  to  doing  such  splen 
did  things  whenever  Fanny  should  have  made 
up  her  mind  to  matrimony,  that  she  really  felt 
humiliated  by  the  suddenness  and  the  meager- 
ness  of  the  whole  thing.  But  there  was  large 
compensation  to  be  drawn  from  the  sparkle 


266  BALDY'S  POINT. 

that  had  come  back  to  Fanny's  eyes  and  the 
lightness  to  her  step,  the  absence  of  which  she 
had  been  so  persistent  in  attributing  to  the 
"child's  disordered  liver." 

Yes,  Baldy's  Point  had  been  reveling  in  ex 
citements,  and  its  appetite  grew  with  what  it 
fed  upon.  That  clearing  up  of  the  mystery 
about  Cap  Van  Dorn,  too,  had  touched  their 
consciences,  and  a  great  many  of  them  made 
solemn  resolutions  never  again  to  judge  a  man 
by  appearances.  The  story  of  Nellie  Hall 
once  out,  Baldy's  Point  was  amiably  inclined  to 
make  a  sort  of  hero  out  of  Cap ;  but  he  received 
their  apologetic  advances  much  as  he  had 
accepted  their  adverse  criticism :  shrugged  his 
broad  shoulders,  laughed  a  trifle  bitterly  at  their 
laudatory  remarks,  and  went  on  about  his  own 
affairs,  unheeding,  uncaring,  only  rejoicing 
that  Nellie  had  at  last  found  a  tender  woman- 
heart  to  nestle  in. 

Whenever  Henry  White  made  grateful  allu 
sion  to  the  night  when  Cap  made  a  sort  of  decoy 
of  himself  in  his  coat  and  hat,  Van  Dorn  would 
smile  inscrutably.  To  his  way  of  thinking,  the 
whole  thing  had  led  up  to  a  delightful  alteration 
in  Briarwood  affairs. 

When  he  went  to  Locust  Grove  to  relieve 
Amy  of  her  charge,  he  found  Nellie  in  a  state 
of  mutiny.  Her  attachment  to  her  new  friends 


BALDY'S  POINT,  267 

was  as  violent  as  it  was  sudden.  With  all  the 
unreason  of  her  disordered  mind,  she  refused  to 
go  with  him. 

The  Major  settled  the  difficulty  in  his  usual 
domineering  fashion:  "Let  her  stay.  I  like  to 
have  the  gentle  little  thing  here.  She  inter 
ests  me." 

"It  should  be  entirely  as  Miss  Wilson  said," 
Cap  had  answered,  looking  wistfully  from  the 
dictatorial  old  soldier,  strong  in  his  helpless 
ness,  to  Amy,  where  she  stood  passing  a  caress 
ing  hand  soothingly  over  Nellie's  shining  hair. 

And  when  Amy  had  said  she  really  thought 
he  had  better  leave  her  where  she  was,  at  least 
until  she  was  well  of  the  bad  cough  that  had 
come  as  a  sequel  to  that  stolen  expedition 
after  blackberries  in  the  dewy  morning  hours, 
he  had  consented  without  a  demurrer. 

So  the  gates  of  Paradise  had  swung  partially 
ajar  for  Cap,  and  he  was  at  liberty  to  come  and 
go  just  when  he  pleased,  with  Nellie's  name  for 
his  passport.  And  Amy  and  the  Major  dis 
cussed  asylums  and  institutions  with  him,  so 
that  when  the  crop  should  be  shipped,  and  he 
should  have  a  little  money,  he  would  know 
just  where  to  take  her. 

And  as  it  was  meet  and  proper  that  Briar- 
wood  should  yield  of  her  increase  to  the  house 
hold  that  was  sharing  this  grave  responsibility 


268  BALDY'S  POINT. 

with  him,  he  resolved  himself  into  an  amateur 
marketman,  rarely  coming  over  without  his 
bags  of  vegetables  or  baskets  of  fruits. 

But  one  morning  he  came  without  any  offer 
ings.  His  face  was  clouded  with  a  new  anxiety, 
and  he  asked  to  see  Amy  alone.  His  horse's 
heaving  flanks  told  the  story  of  his  hard  riding. 

"I've  got  a  strange  letter  here,"  he  said, 
going  into  his  subject  without  preamble,  "and 
as  I'm  afraid  it  will  take  me  to  New  Orleans, 
and  perhaps  to  Kentucky,  before  I  get  back, 
I've  come  to  ask  you,  if  Nellie  should  need  any 
thing,  will  you  call  on  Sellers  for  it?  I'll  make 
it  right  when  I  go  through  town." 

"No  more  trouble,  I  hope?  Nothing  very 
serious?" 

She  was  always  gentle  and  patient  and  court 
eous.  She  was  that  to  everybody;  but  he 
craved  something  more,  and  he  craved  it  espe 
cially  that  morning. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  gravely,  "something  very  seri 
ous,  I  apprehend.  I  knew,  as  soon  as  I  took 
hold  of  my  business  after  the  war,  that  some 
fellow  in  New  Orleans  had  bought  up  all  the 
mortgages  on  my  place,  and  that  he  was 
inclined  to  give  me  trouble.  But  I  did  not 
know  until  to-day  that  malice  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it." 

"Malice?" 


BALDY'S  POINT.  269 

"Yes.  At  least  unless  there's  a  remarkable 
coincidence  underneath  it.  This  letter" — he 
felt  in  his  pocket  for  it — "is  from  a  lawyer  in 
New  Orleans,  who  informs  me  that  he  has  been 
notified  of  the  sudden  death  of  a  client  of  his, 
by  name  Hall,  who  holds  a  first  mortgage 
on  my  place,  and  that  his  client  wrote  from 
his  death-bed  desiring  foreclosure  and  an 
adjustment  of  his  estate  for  the  benefit  of  his 
only  child — a  daughter." 

"And  you  think — "  said  Amy,  exchanging 
her  vaguely  polite  interest  for  an  attitude  of 
eager  attention. 

"That  this  man  Hall  is  Nellie's  father.  If  it 
is,  I  know  he's  left  things  in  as  bad  a  fix  as 
possible  for  me.  I've  nothing  to  hope  for  in 
the  way  of  time." 

"But  Hall  is  such  a  common  name." 

"True.  But  he  says,  here,  this  man  died  in 
Kentucky,  where  he  had  gone  for  his  daughter." 

"And  what  would  the  foreclosure  of  the 
mortgage  mean  for  you?" 

"Ruin.     Absolute  and  utter  ruin." 

"Oh,  no,  don't  say  that !  Think  how  young, 
how  strong,  how — 

She  merely  hesitated  for  a  word  that  shouldn't 
sound  too  patronizing,  but  when  she  saw  the 
great  light  of  hope  dawning  in  his  fine  eyes, 
she  flushed  and  hesitated  still  longer.  She  had 


270  BALDY'S  POINT. 

known  for  a  great  while  all  that  was  in  his  fool 
ish,  fond  heart.  She  finished  her  sentence  with 
cool  reserve : 

"Your  friends  say  that  you  have  shown  in 
domitable  resolution  in  the  past.  Hold  fast 
by  it  for  the  future,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"All  will  be  well!" 

He  echoed  her  words  almost  hungrily,  and 
then  he  rushed  on  to  meet  his  fate. 

"I've  always  thought  that  a  man  showed  a 
terrible  amount  of  effrontery  in  asking  a  woman 
to  share  nothing  with  him,  calmly  taking  it  for 
granted  that  he  could  make  up  to  her  by  pretty 
speeches  for  every  deprivation  his  poverty 
entailed  on  her;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
sometimes  feel  that  I  could  get  the  upper  hand 
of  my  bad  luck  yet,  if  only  I  had  a  goal  to 
work  up  to.  You  see,  I've  never  had  a  goal.  I 
suppose  I've  worked  harder  than  I  would  have 
done  otherwise,  because  I  owed  it  to  Nellie  to 
make  her  as  comfortable  as  possible.  But  if  it 
should  turn  out  that  this  man  Hall  is  her  father, 
and  that  she  owns  Briarwood,  there'll  be  plenty 
of  her  kin  turning  up  to  take  care  of  the  poor 
child.  They  wouldn't  tire  so  quickly  of  an 
heiress.  I  suppose  the  right  sort  of  a  fellow 
would  always  do  his  best  on  abstract  principles, 
but  then  I  never  claimed  to  be -the  right  sort 
of  a  fellow,  you  know.  If  only  now — 


JBALDY'S  POINT.  271 

He  looked  at  her  imploringly.  She  was  not 
so  unversed  in  the  lore  of  the  human  heart  as 
to  misread  that  earnest  look.  She  blushed  to 
think  how  much  of  her  own  weakness  this  sim 
ple-hearted,  brave  fellow  had  penetrated  in  the 
past,  and  yet  loved  her.  She  sighed  to  think 
how  persistently  he  refused  to  modify  the  ped 
estal  he  had  erected  for  her  occupancy  when 
they  were  both  years  younger.  She  wished 
she  could  give  him  all  that  he  wanted  and  that 
he  deserved  to  have.  It  seemed  so  very 
recently  that  she  had  come  to  do  him  bare 
justice  even.  If  there  was  nothing  to  woo  him 
on,  there  was  certainly  nothing  to  repel  him  in 
her  face.  She  seemed  waiting  for  the  comple 
tion  of  that  disjointed  sentence  : 

"If  only  now  I  had  a  goal." 

Something  came  into  her  face,  and,  reflecting 
itself  in  his  heart  and  voice,  filled  them  with 
-brave  hope. 

"If  only  you,  Amy,  whom  I  have  loved  ever 
since  I  can  remember,  it  seems  to  me,  would 
say,  'Do  it  for  my  sake,'  what  would  I  not  un 
dertake?  It's  the  aimlessness  of  it  all,  you 
see,  that  crushes  the  energy  out  of  a  fellow.  I 
couldn't  work  just  to  feed  and  clothe  Cap  Van 
Dorn.  I  don't  think  enough  of  him  for  it,  you 
see."  He  tried  to  point  the  humor  of  his 
words  with  a  laugh,  but  it  was  a  failure. 


272  BALDY'S  POINT. 

"I  am  so  much  weaker  and  more  foolish  than 
I  can  ever  hope  to  make  you  understand,"  she 
said,  with  unshed  tears  making  her  eyes  starry 
bright ;  "if  you  only  knew — " 

"I  do  know,"  said  Cap,  in  a  voice  of  solemn 
tenderness.  "I  know  that  I  am  not  your 
heart's  first  choice,  but  all  I  ask  is  permission 
to  win  you  into  oblivion  of  every  sorrow  that 
has  brooded  over  this  dear  head.  Will  you  let 
me  try,  Amy?  I  don't  want  to  bind  you  by 
any  promises.  When  you  come  to  me,  it  must 
be  because  you  love  me  better  than  you  do 
anybody  else  on  earth.  If  that  time  ever 
comes,  will  you  tell  me  of  it  voluntarily?" 

And,  standing  up  before  him,  with  both  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  in  his,  she  promised  that 
she  would.  In  a  letter  he  wrote  to  her  from 
New  Orleans  he  took  no  advantage  of  the 
footing  he  had  gained.  It  was  all  about  Nellie ; 
at  least  almost  all. 

"It  seems,  you  know,"  he  wrote,  "that 
Nemesis  had  been  working  for  the  child  whose 
life  I  marred.  It  is  as  I  supposed.  That  man 
Hall  was  her  father.  He  went  to  England 
during  the  war,  and  had  just  come  back.  He 
had  left  the  Briarwood  matters  in  shape  to  put 
the  screws  on  as  soon  as  my  crop  was  ready  for 
marketing.  Nellie  is  an  heiress.  And  now  I 
shant  have  to  look  about  for  a  'reasonable' 


BALDY'S  POINT.  273 

asylum ;  she  can  be  lodged  like  a  princess,  poor 
dear,  and  fare  sumptuously  every  day.  Do  you 
know,  I've  got  a  foolish  sort  of  a  feeling  as  if 
there  was  some  sort  of  atonement  in  submitting 
to  be  made  poor  that  she  should  be  enriched? 
I'm  hanging  on  here  to  see  if  her  executors  will 
rent  the  place  to  me  for  next  year.  I'm  sure 
she  couldn't  have  a  tenant  who  would  look 
out  for  her  interests  more  keenly.  You  believe 
that,  don't  you?" 

The  rest  of  his  letter  concerned  her  alone. 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  answered 
him,  but  her  letter  concerned  Nellie  exclusive 
ly:  "I  hope  you  won't  be  away  much  longer," 
it  said ;  "we  have  had  a  terrible  fright  about 
Nellie.  I  am  afraid  that  wetting  she  got  has 
done  her  more  serious  harm  than  we  can  yet 
see.  Her  cough  grows  worse  every  day,  and 
last  night  she  had  a  slight  hemorrhage  which 
necessitates  our  keeping  her  very  still.  Father 
sits  by  her  bedside,  showing  her  pictures  and 
telling  her  stories  all  day  long.  I  love  to  see 
them  together.  They  both  seem  so  happy." 

He  tarried  no  longer  than  was  absolutely 
necessary.  It  was  to  the  Wilson  place  that  he 
rode  straight  from  the  steamboat  landing. 

"I've  found  a  splendid  asylum  for  Nellie," 
were  almost  the  first  words  he  said  when  Amy 
came  out  to  meet  him  on  the  front  gallery. 


274  SALDY'S  POINT. 

She  did  not  loose  her  hold  of  his  hand,  but 
drew  him  gently  with  her  as  she  turned  toward 
the  room  where  Nellie  lay  fever-stricken  and 
wasted. 

"She  has  chosen  her  own  asylum,"  she  said, 
pausing  before  opening  the  door  to  the  sick' 
room,  "and  you  must  be  prepared  for  a  great 
change." 

"Not  dead?" 

"No,  but  very,  very  ill." 

Yes,  very,  very  ill.  She  turned  her  large 
eyes  slowly  toward  the  door  when  it  opened, 
and  a  seraphic  smileplayed  upon  her  lips  as  she 
recognized  the  two  dearest  faces  on  earth  to 
her.  Cap  kneeled  down  by  her  bedside,  and, 
clasping  her  two  wasted  little  hands  in  his,  said 
in  a  broken  voice  : 

"Little  Nellie,  before  you  go  away  I  want 
you  to  say  something  for  Cap ;  say  it  after  me, 
little  girl,  won't  you?" 

She  smiled  her  assent,  and,  watching  his  trem 
bling  lips,  repeated  docilely  the  words  he 
doled  out  tremulously,  a  single  one  at  a  time: 
"Cap — I — forgive — you — everything." 

"I'm  going  to  see  mamma,"  she  added 
brightly.  "Amy  says  so.  Amy  says  the  flow 
ers  bloom  there  always.  I  love  the  flowers." 

Her  restless  little  hand,  in  its  feverish  wan 
derings  over  the  bed-spread,  rested  on  Queenie's 


JBALDY'S  POINT.  275 

flaxen  curls.  She  gathered  this  faithful  com 
panion  of  her  darkened  days  in  a  tender  em 
brace:  "May  I  take  Queenie  to  where  the  flow 
ers  bloom?  Say,  Cap" — her  gentle  voice  grew 
querulous ;  she  was  impatient  of  the  tears  that 
kept  him  mute — "may  I  take  Queenie  to  show 
her  to  mamma?" 

A  sobbing  "yes"  satisfied  her.  Poor  little 
Nellie,  she'd  never  been  exacting,  and  she 
closed  her  eyes  as  if  tired  of  such  an  unus 
ual  effort.  Only  for  a  second.  Presently  she 
opened  them  again,  and  turned  them  wistfully 
on  the  loving  faces  about  her  bed.  They  were 
all  there;  Amy  kneeling  on  one  side  of  her  and 
Cap  on  the  other,  the  Major  quietly  sobbing 
just  out  of  her  line  of  vision,  and  Mammy 
kneeling  in  prayer  for  the  passing  soul. 

"Cap,"  she  called  to  him  shrilly,  as  if  he  were 
at  a  great  distance,  "I  don't  want  to  -take 
Queenie ;  she's  heavy,  and  I'm  so  tired.  I  want 
to  pick  flowers  along  the  road.  You  may  have 
Queenie.  You  may  have  all  my  things — every 
thing  I've  got.  You  may  have  all  my  things 
that  I  love,  Cap — my  Mammy,  and  Queenie — 
and — Amy.  I'm  going  to  where  the  flowers — 
Her  eyes  closed.  Her  breath  was  spent. 
She  had  gone  to  where  the  flowers  bloom 
always.  She  had  made  her  bequests  and 
chosen  her  asylum. 


2 76  BALDY'S  POINT. 

Across  her  pulseless  form  Cap  looked  into 
Amy's  eyes.  Would  she  ratify  Nellie's  be 
quest?  Voluntarily  she  placed  her  hand  in  his 
as  they  knelt  there,  the  one  on  either  side  of 
the  child  they  had  sheltered  together.  Nellie's 
sweet  lips  seemed  to  wreathe  themselves  into  a 
smiling  benediction,  wafted  from  the  spirit 
world,  and  Cap  Van  Dorn  had  found  his  goal. 


THE  END. 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


